


The Spy Who Loved Me

by fadefilter, miriad



Category: Black Panther (2018), Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Assassination, BAMF Bucky Barnes, Biting, Blood, Blow Jobs, Bottom Bucky Barnes, Bottom Steve Rogers, Bucky Barnes in Bucharest, Bucky Barnes is a goddamn delight, Bucky Barnes/Guns, Bucky is the competent one, Canon-Typical Violence, Comfort Sex, Dirty Talk, Established Relationship, Eventual Smut, Feels, Guns, Happy Ending, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, James Bond but only if you squint, Kissing, M/M, Monopoly was invented in 1935 don't at me, Murder, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Alternating, POV Multiple, POV Original Character, Post-Black Panther (2018), Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Pre-Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie), Protective Bucky Barnes, Reunion, Sass, Sexual Harassment, Sexy Times, Steve Rogers Gets a Hug, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, Steve Rogers is Not a Virgin, Steve Rogers is a babe in the woods compared to his boo, Steve is kind of a damsel in distress here but I don't have any regrets, Steve is kind of awful at this secret identity thing, Switching, The Author Regrets Nothing, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Top Steve Rogers, Ursula Andress eat your heart out, because Bucky takes care of goddamn business thank you very much, coming on each other, handsy villain, i think that's it really, lots of blood, more like nibbling really, no sexual assault actually occurs in this story, our bad guy does get someone naked without their permission, so much sass, they both go both ways because of course they do, vague references to past sexual assault, villain intends non-con but is not able to follow through
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-23
Updated: 2019-06-25
Packaged: 2020-05-16 20:26:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 23,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19325488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fadefilter/pseuds/fadefilter, https://archiveofourown.org/users/miriad/pseuds/miriad
Summary: Steve Rogers has only been able to flirt successfully with a total of two people: both of whom were born before 1925 and both had already decided they liked him before he’d even bothered to try. He’s a goddamn babe in the wilderness.But there’s optimism and there’s stupidity.  If Steve’s not at the bar, Bucky needs to find where he is. That’s why he came on this mission, that’s why he’s here. He’s here to keep Steve from doing something stupid and from having something stupid done to him. It’s like fucking 1938 all over again, and Bucky didn’t survive that year just to have Steve go down in goddamn 2017.





	1. I wasn't lookin' but somehow you found me

**Author's Note:**

> I am so excited to finally start posting! I was super thrilled when I was able to snag @fadefilter's incredible artwork. They've been so fun to work with and I can't say enough about their patience and kindness as I've worked with them. All the artwork for the story will be posted on Monday, which is our official posting date. So, stay tuned for that.
> 
> Thank you to @lady_disdain, @gutterandthestars and @ZoeAlden for the beta work- you guys are the BEST and I love you all!
> 
> Please note: the tags cover this chapter. There will be additional tags for each of the next two chapters. If anyone has any questions before those get posted, please let me know. 
> 
> I've been a lover of the James Bond franchise since I was a fairly small kid, and even after learning about the problematic nature of a lot of the stories that franchise has been telling, there was a draw to it that I really couldn't write off. It was really fun to pick and choose certain tropes and elements from the Bond series and play with them in the MCU. I also really like writing Bucky. More accurately, I liked writing MY version of Bucky and Steve, and am looking forward to writing more of them. Hopefully you'll enjoy my take on them as much as I enjoyed writing them.

 

 

The bed is warm, and a heated blanket has been draped over his body, so he’s comfortable as he wakes, which is one of the biggest clues that he isn’t with HYDRA any longer.

Then he remembers that, of course, he’s not with HYDRA. He’s in Wakanda. Fucking magical Wakanda, that everyone and their brother, including Alexander Pierce, had thought was some kind of poor, backwater nation but apparently was the richest, most advanced country in the world.

Who the fuck knew?

“Sergeant Barnes?” The voice belongs to a young woman, the accent clearly Wakandan. Shuri. It must be Shuri. The Princess. Bucky can’t believe this is his life, but then, what the hell has his life been for the past seventy years?

“I’m up, I’m up,” he mutters as he drags his right hand out from under the gloriously warm blankets and rubs at his eyes. He shrugs his left shoulder and yep. The arm is still gone. He swallows down the rush of saliva that floods his mouth, adamant that he won’t puke in front of the Princess. At least, not again.

“Sergeant Barnes, how do you feel this morning?” He finally opens his eyes and is pleased to discover the normal dry and rough feeling he usually has is gone. He wonders if she used drops or something, before he regains consciousness, and then decides he doesn’t want to know. People touching him while he’s asleep is not something he likes to contemplate, even when he likes those people as much as he likes Shuri.

“Like I got run over by a scooter,” he tells her, trying to push himself up on the bed using just his right arm. Shuri stands and uses a strength he’d never guess she was capable of to help him settle in his new position.

“That is less than optimal,” she mutters, reaching for a tablet-like device she’d left on her chair, fingers flying across the screen.

“Considering I usually feel like I’ve been run over by a fleet of crosstown buses, this is a major improvement.” Bucky tries to smile at her, but it feels wrong on his face, like the muscle movements belonged to someone else and he’d stolen them just that morning.

“Ah, I see. Well, we shall speak of this in more detail in the future, so I may understand what needs to change in order for this process to be less uncomfortable.”

Bucky frowns. He looks around the room and notices two things. One, it’s not the same room he was frozen in, and he can’t place it. He’s hopefully still in the Wakandan palace but where, he couldn’t say for sure. Two, Shuri is the only other person in the room. Steve isn’t there and there’s only one chair next to the bed, so Bucky can’t even convince himself that Steve’s just stepped out into the hall to take a call or into the bathroom to take a dump.

“Where’s Steve?” he asks, trying to be polite, but he’s starting to wonder if the reason he was thawed out was to get Steve out of some kind of trouble.

“He’s on a mission for my brother,” Shuri starts, her voice steady but there’s a tightness to her eyes Bucky picks up on and he leans forward. “He’s undercover.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Bucky explodes, throwing the blankets off his legs. “Steve can’t do undercover work! He couldn’t lie to anyone, he shows everything clear as day on his face.” He hops off the bed, his feet hitting the warm tile with a soft slap. “Where’d they send him?”

“Some resort in the Seychelles, looking for this Russian mobster who-“

“Russian MOBSTER? Jesus CHRIST.” Bucky heads to the door, not caring that he’s still in pajama pants, or that he needs to piss like a racehorse, or that he just left Her Royal Highness, the Princess of Wakanda, standing by his bedside after swearing her out.

“Sergeant Barnes!” Shuri calls after him.

“What do you need, Shuri?” He asks as he tried to figure out how to open a door that doesn’t have a door handle. He finally sees the sunken panel and presses his hand against it. The door slides open. He turns to look at her, his leg and hip sticking out into the hallway through the doorway.

“My brother is in his lab, on the fifth floor. Please don’t break anything in there. He’s testing my work and I’d hate to have to come find you and express my anger over my work being ruined.” Her face looks serious but her eyes are dancing and he shoots her a jaunty salute as he exits the room at a pace that is not, of course, a run, no matter what anyone else in that hallway has to say about it.

* * *

Steve looks through his suitcase again, and only sees the kinds of clothes he’s sure Pepper picks out for Tony, when he’s not working in the lab.

Which isn’t bad, but it isn’t Steve.

Which works out, because Steve isn’t supposed to be Steve on this mission. He’s Gabriel Montgomery (with apologies to his brothers in arms whose names he’s scavenged for the job), a shipping magnate from the US who’s been working in the Far East and has been building up his business in Africa, including Wakanda, now that Wakanda has opened her borders.

He’s got a few items that make him attractive to the right people, including documentation showing he’s had multiple audiences with T’Challa, and that he’s got one of the first export agreements for vibranium the world has ever seen. That alone is worth possibly trillions.

Add to that, put Steve in clothes that actually fit him, according to Sam, and he’s one of the most eligible gay bachelors in the world. Which is convenient, because Vladimir Petrovich is as gay as they come, as well as greedy as anyone’s ever been made, so Steve should be a sort of catnip to the guy.

Steve sure as shit hopes so, because he doesn’t like being anyone’s bait, and he doesn’t like being as out of contact with his team as this mission requires, in order to prevent any transmissions from being intercepted or overheard when they really couldn’t afford to have that happen.

He’d agreed to do it because Petrovich is a world class piece of shit, the kind of guy Steve would’ve started fights with on the street back in the day. He had designs on Wakanda, but also on a few of the neighboring countries Wakanda kept an eye on and tried to protect. Petrovich wanted to strip minerals and gems from all of them for as little money as he could get away with, using local labor as cheaply as possible, and a history of people disappearing from areas Petrovich had made an appearance, the general consensus being Petrovich had rounded them up, forcing them to work as slaves.

This had been enough for Steve to agree to whatever plan T’Challa had wanted to put in to motion. He’d read through the documentation and data, and agreed that a honeypot situation might be the best bet, especially since Petrovich already had a weeklong getaway planned on a secluded resort, one that T’Challa could get Steve in to but Steve would have to go alone.

So here he is, alone. Trying to figure out what shirt to wear with which pants, and desperately wanting to ask Bucky, who was always the guy who understood fashion, how it worked and what the point of it was. Bucky’s still back in Wakanda, as frozen as the block of ice cream Steve’s sure is still in the back of his apartment freezer in Brooklyn, where he hasn’t set foot in over two years. All those thoughts being incredibly depressing, he pulls the thin card out from between the layers of the suitcase, where Shuri has kindly mocked up a few outfits and listed appropriate circumstances for wearing them.

He ends up in a soft cotton button down that’s pressed but not too formal, and a pair of gray slacks, loafers without socks, and a pair of sunglasses that cost more than the first car Bucky’s father bought in 1934.

All he needs to do is go out to the bar, sit and have a drink, and give off the vibe of “rich, horny, and super gay.”

He can pretend that he doesn’t have both Tony and Bucky’s voices in the back of his head reminding him that, as of today, he technically is all of those things, even if all of his assets are currently frozen.

“Let’s do this,” he says to himself, clapping his hands, which he realizes after he does it, is an attempt to do a self high-five. Which is… not cool. He sighs and makes sure he’s got his room key in his pocket, then heads out to the bar and doesn’t look back.

***

Bucky’s been out on the water most of the morning. He showed up as early as he could get away with, verified when the bar would open, and settled his bag of shit in a space that would make sense later when he went to collect it.

He’s got a boogie board made of material that will biodegrade in the water after constant exposure for two or more days (Shuri’d come up with it, after he’d outlined his plan with her, and he couldn’t be happier.), a small bag holding a pair of cheap but functional binoculars, and a waterproof bag of snacks.

He rides a few waves on the board as the morning drags on, until he sees the bar roll up its cloth sides. He takes fewer waves and paddles around, farther from shore so he’s not so easily seen, at least not the details, and from time to time he uses the binoculars to check on who’s at the bar.

Bucky eats all his snacks and is a bit annoyed at himself, knowing that Steve has been known to take his goddamn time with things, and who’s to say he’d even show up remotely when he was supposed to. Bucky’s fingers on his right hand are also pruny and he’s ready to get out of the water.

His left hand, the new one Shuri designed specifically for him, is covered in an approximation of skin that’s a mix of synthetic materials and hologram. Water beads up on it, making that one section of skin look like he’d just gotten out of a quick shower. He makes a mental note to see if Shuri has any way to update the programming to match his other hand, just in case anyone else is watching him.

So, he can’t help himself from doing a small fist pump when he sees Steve, holding a folded newspaper and a coffee cup, settle himself at the bar. Bucky can’t bring his shit with him up to the bar, it’ll give away the game, so he puts the binoculars back into the plastic bag, with the orange peels and few bits of trash his snacks produced, and releases them into the water, where the bag floats along the tops of the waves, lazily heading back to shore. He promises himself he’ll come back out to collect the bag later, on the beach, if only to keep his fingerprints out of the equation but more thinking about how much he doesn’t want to add to the additional trash going into the oceans.

He drops off the boogie board and lets that go as well, knowing that it will dissolve in less than two days without putting gross chemicals into the water, so he won’t even bother to look for it.

He swims underwater for a long stretch of the distance back to the shore, coming up for air and to recalibrate his trajectory twice. Then, once the water’s less than hip height, he stands up, angling his body towards Steve’s stool, positioning himself to present his assets, currently poured into the tightest pair of red booty swim trunks Shuri could find him.

He’s got a large knife in a sheath attached to his left leg in a waterproof holster, ostensibly for the fishing he was supposed to be doing, but really, it was the only weapon he could really store on his person without making his intentions for possible trouble so perfectly clear.

The water sluices down his body, running in rivulets over his pecs, down his abs, pooling in the cuts of his hips, catching in his leg hair. He pushes the hair back from his face and leans his head back to help with the situation. He blinks once to get the saltwater out of his eyes and when he looks back at the bar, Steve is staring.

At him.

Steve’s mouth is open, his jaw hanging a bit, and the big lug looks about three seconds from yelling out Bucky’s name. They can’t have that, not after all the work everyone on this mission has already put in.

He struts, out of the water and then up the beach, sand sticking to his feet and ankles, but he doesn’t pay attention to that. Bucky’s dealt with worse annoyances in his life, some of which were directly related to being friends with Steven Grant Rogers. He can do this.

 

Bucky sidles up to the bar, next to the stool where Steve’s sitting, still holding the damn newspaper. Steve’s mouth is still open and Bucky looks at him for a second, one eyebrow raised, until his jaw snaps closed. Bucky leans up and over the bar, waving at the bartender.

“Vodka martini. Shake the shit out of it, if you would please.” Bucky smiles at the bartender with his best grin, putting as much honesty and seduction into it, the bartender taking the bait and hopping to mix Bucky’s drink even though there are still other folks who’d already been waiting to order from the bar.

“Um…” Steve says.

“Hi,” Bucky says, turning towards Steve now, leaning against the bar with his right arm, angling his hips towards Steve. He’d be naked if it weren’t for the swim trunks, which are just long enough to cover his ass and be considered “decent”. Everything else on him right now is naked skin, glistening with sea water, long legs crossed at the ankle, chest tilted back to present his pecs, stomach, and pelvic region like it’s on a platter to be devoured. Steve clearly gets the message. “You look thirsty. Can I get you something?”

Steve swallows, then narrows his eyes, taking it all in. He tilts his head to the side and makes a face that Bucky remembers from years ago, from when Steve was still little, when they’d had to run different grifts, if only to get away from some of the scumbags who tried to own their neighborhood. It’s a look that says, _I see what you’re doing and I’ll go with it, but you’re gonna pay for that later_. Bucky sure as shit hopes so.

Steve squares his shoulders and something settles over him, Bucky recognizes it as Steve reclaiming his undercover persona. “Isn’t that supposed to be my line?” He says, leaning forward, voice dropping low and sure.

“You offering?” Bucky asks. The bartender sets his drink by Bucky’s hand. Bucky doesn’t look at it or pick it up. He’s only got eyes for Steve.

“Well,” Steve drawls, standing up to his full height, stepping closer. The difference between their states of dress becomes even more clear as he presses Bucky back against the bar, Steve’s hand curling warm around Bucky’s hip. “If I thought you’d be open to it, sure.”

“I’m open,” Bucky says, his voice almost catching, just a curl of a smile in it. Their faces tilt toward each other, the pull unavoidable, like magnets.

“I’ll bet you are,” Steve rasps out, licking his lips. “I’ve got… a thing with an associate in a few minutes but then I’m all yours. Care to join me in my suite?” Their noses brush, just slightly but Bucky feels the short contact like electricity, in his dick, in the back of his balls. He wants to adjust himself in his suit but can’t afford to show weakness here. He takes comfort in the knowledge that the front of Steve’s pants have to be soaked by now, although clearly neither of them care.

“Give me a key, I’ll be there,” he says, breath bouncing off Steve’s lips, back to his own.

The key card’s in Steve’s hand, right next to Bucky’s face, before he can even finish speaking. “Twenty minutes. Wait for me. Wear less clothing.”

Bucky laughs and raises his other eyebrow this time. He likes to show off for Steve, he won’t lie. “Doesn’t get much less than this,” and angles his hips so Steve can feel how hard he is in his criminally tight swim trunks. Any tighter and everyone’ll know he’s Jewish.

“But there is a less,” Steve breathes out, leaning over Bucky’s ear, the air moving Bucky’s quickly drying hair against his electric skin. “Make it happen. Twenty minutes.”

Bucky thinks Steve’s going to kiss him and, fuck the plan, Bucky needs him to.

But he doesn’t. Instead, he raises Bucky’s drink to his mouth, taking a large, unappreciated sip of martini - the heathen.

Bucky inhales slowly and smirks, sliding the key card into the waistband of his suit, between the fabric and his skin, feeling the card rest on the top of his dick. Not comfortable, but he’ll know if it falls out, that’s for damn sure.

“See you then, ‘big guy,’” he says, and turns on his heel, feet silent on the tile then the sidewalk as he heads up to the hotel.

***

As soon as Bucky turns the corner at the back of the bar, Steve downs the rest of the martini, without tasting it at all, needing the burn as he swallows to try shaking himself out of whatever spell’s been put on him. What the fuck is Bucky even doing here?

He sets down the now-empty martini glass and leans over the bar, motioning to the bartender for another two drinks, his breath coming hard and fast. Hiding his hips beneath the lip of the bar, he knuckles at his hard-on, willing it to go away as quickly as possible.

But he can still smell Bucky where he’s standing, and his cock just throbs.

“I hope one of those is for me?” A heavy chin drops on top of Steve’s shoulder, an arm reaching around him to grab at one of the drinks the bartender delivered. Steve bites back a groan and girds his loins for whatever’s about to happen next. His hard-on withers away instantly, his prayer answered but not even close to the reason he’d prefer.

Vladimir Pietrovich sounds like the villain from Ninotchka, despite being born and raised in Moscow. He even looks like Bela Lugosi, with thinning hair that’s slicked back & reeks of Brylcreem. He has a paunch he’s trying to hide under an expensive but unflattering suit, like it was made to fit someone else. Which makes his next move even more hilarious: he pushes back the stool next to Steve and rests his ass on the edge, pointing his dick towards Steve like it’s a rocket launcher.

Steve, who’s desperately trying to get back into character, can’t think of anything besides Bucky, and Bucky’s dick, and - sweet mother Mary, how did he get here?

“Of course,” he manages, pulling his gaze away from the path Bucky took, struggling to focus on the conversation at hand. He shifts his gaze to the drinks on the bar, then the center of Pietrovich’s forehead, actively avoiding eye contact. “But, you know, you’re late, so I really should drink both myself.”

“But you won’t,” Pietrovich purrs, his thick, furry hand groping Steve’s forearm.

“If you’ve got what I need,” Steve says, trying to focus on the job – not Bucky waiting for him, naked in his hotel room - because there is a mission here and lives at stake and - Jesus, Rogers. “They’re both yours.”

Pietrovich smiles, picking up a drink in each hand, managing to somehow look even more like a weasel that mated with a warthog, and Steve suppresses a shudder. “I’ve got everything you need, handsome. Just follow me.”

***

Bucky quickly detours to snatch his bag of shit, still cleverly hidden and undisturbed since the morning. He’s planning on using some of his supplies to wash off the sea salt and sunscreen once he gets to Steve’s room, and do his hair. Because fuck everyone, he has some goddamn dignity left, and he’s not having his first sexual encounter with Steve Goddamn Rogers in seventy years with bad hair.

Once he gets to Steve’s door, he somehow wedges his thumb under his waistband of his swim shorts to give himself enough room to get out the keycard. It takes a bit of fumbling, as the sweat and saltwater have managed to shift the card just enough to have adhered the plastic card right next to his right nut.

After he’s wasted five minutes messing around with the keycard, it takes another five to get his shorts off. He showers with military precision and has a total of eight minutes until Steve shows up.

He smooths a quarter-sized dollop of the styling lotion Shuri had packed for him, assured him would bring out the red and gold in his hair, making it shine. He uses the hairdryer she sent with him as well, which blasts his head with the kind of heat he’s not sure he’s experienced anywhere other than the Mojave Desert. It has the added bonus of not blowing out the entirety of the resort’s power grid, despite the kind of power it has to be drawing.

All in all, he’s able to clean up, and _clean up_ , if a person gets his meaning, in less than eighteen minutes, which leaves him just enough time to double check that everything’s perfect and ready for when Steve finally shows up.

And boy, is he.

Getting Steve back to the room solves a number of problems. For one, Steve’ll be corralled in a space where Bucky can have his six. At least this way Bucky’s able to advise and participate in any and all of Steve’s stupid ideas, rather than having a minor aneurism when he finds out after the fact. (He doesn’t want to know what happened while he was frozen in Wakanda. He just – doesn’t want to know. He’s sure Sam will tell him later, because he’s a dick like that. For now though, it’s better for everyone involved, most especially Steven Grant Rogers, that he doesn’t know what trouble the dipshit got himself into this time.)

For two, he’ll be able to let Steve know what’s up with Vlad, without tipping off whoever Vlad’s paid to listen to them. Which Vlad has definitely done. Bucky’s found at least seven bugs, only one of which is SHIELD-related, which doesn’t mean it wasn’t actually planted by Hydra on a previous op.

There’s at least one camera, but it’s not placed particularly well, which says it’s probably mob related, and that they’d hired local talent instead of bringing in their own. Which is a good sign as it means they don’t know Steve is _Steve_. They bought his cover, which - on paper makes sense. Even with the beard, Steve’s just so _Steve_ that Bucky can’t imagine not knowing it’s him. But then again, he’s a bit biased.

Bucky tips the camera a bit so that instead of aiming at the desk and the bed, it’s aimed more towards the lamp and the window, catching a bit of the air conditioner. He leaves the audio-only bugs because pulling them would alert whoever’s listening, and if they legitimately haven’t figured Steve out yet, Bucky’d rather not give them any reason to start questioning him now.

Bucky doesn’t want them to get video of anything – compromising. He can’t be sure he could lock that down after this mission pans out.

So, audio? Sure. Video? No fucking way.

He positions himself on the bed so he has sightlines to both the door and windows, as well as having the various weapons he’s hidden in the side table and under the mattress within easy reach. He’s also settled himself in such a way that so when Steve walks through that door, he’s going to have to really struggle to not blow his load.

Bucky is nothing if not efficient and effective.

The problem is, however, that Steve’s late. Which isn’t to say it’s rare, just not all that common once the serum turned him into a giant mountain of a man. He hadn’t needed to worry about his asthma anymore, so he didn’t need to modulate his pace or speed. His heart was just fine, his spine wasn’t causing him pain- there weren’t any physical reasons to make him late. Even during the war, when things like Nazis could slow a fella down, Steve had been on time and prompt.

It’s weird he’s late. When the clock ticks over to more than thirty minutes since he should’ve walked through the door, Bucky knows there’s a serious problem.

Steve might have been five or ten minutes late, especially if he’d hit a snag in the mission – which was bound to happen when dealing with Vladimir Pietrovich. When the Red Room owned the Winter Soldier, Pietrovich had been working with the KGB. After a couple of run-ins with the handsy motherfucker, Pietrovich had been given orders to keep his hands off the Soldier – not that he ever followed them. Based on T’Challa’s intel, the creep was eventually run out of the FSB by Putin himself.

But Steve knew Bucky would be waiting for him, naked & ready to be banged like a screen door in a hurricane. Steve Rogers would not have missed that for anything other than a real emergency. Bucky sits up, and breathes in, then out, to a five-count. This is what he came here to prevent. Fuck.

Okay, Steve’s in trouble. Must be Tuesday.

How does he go about getting Steve out of trouble?

Steve was planning to come back to the room. He didn’t intend to take this long. Something, or someone, has prevented him from returning. The best way to find out would be to ask around, especially the hotel staff.

Bucky realizes that he didn’t really bring any resort-appropriate clothing, at least if he’s trying to blend in. He’s got tactical clothes and more swimwear in his bag, but nothing casual or comfortable for this much heat and humidity.

T’Challa sent Steve, so Bucky assumes Shuri sent gadgets and equipment with him that she thought would be helpful. And, based on his limited but intimate knowledge of her, she probably also packed his clothes or had them ordered to her specifications so that he didn’t look his actual age. Which, point to Shuri if that’s the case, because Steve is the oldest-looking young guy Bucky’s ever seen, and Bucky’s a whole year older than him.

He starts pulling open drawers at random, to find that he’s right- the clothes are nothing like what Steve would’ve picked for himself: too expensive- all haute couture designers and high fashion cuts. Bucky doesn’t recognize any of the styles himself, although it had been a long time since he’d been on a mission where he’d needed anything other than tactical gear, so he can admit he’s not the best judge of any of it.

He ends up grabbing a pair of gray linen slacks – that are strangely without creases, fuckin’ magical future-pants - and a cotton button-down shirt and starts pulling them on. He couldn’t find an undershirt in any of the drawers, and he decides to forgo it, buttoning his shirt only halfway. The pants are tight in the midriff in a way that is actually familiar, what with Steve having the waist size of Scarlett O’Hara.

Bucky’s not heavy, but he’s much thicker through the trunk than Steve, and has to actually _suck it in for a minute_ to get the button closed. He buttons the shirt, finding a few areas of tightness and looseness where their differences in body shape and muscle mass make themselves clearly known, and just has to deal with it, even if it’s not the most comfortable or flattering. He doesn’t have a lot of other options.

But he decides that if Shuri offers to order him a new wardrobe, he’s going to say yes before she’s even done asking the question because the fabric in these pants is just glorious and the old Bucky Barnes, the one that would spend an hour getting ready for a date with a lady he didn’t even really want to go out with, _that_ Bucky can appreciate just what that means about the cloth, the cut, the style, the cost.

Luckily for him, the difference in shoe size between he and Steve was so small as to be almost nonexistent, so he pulls out the most comfortable casual shoe he can find that isn’t an athletic lace up in the closet. He forgoes socks, because he’s on an island resort, who the fuck wears socks at an island resort?

With that, he works on securing all the weapons he brought with him and digs through Steve’s bags to find anything Steve brought that he’d left back in the room in order to not tip his hand. Bucky could hide a knife anywhere, even if he were naked. Steve had trouble hiding one while wearing a parka and snow pants, which made Bucky weep.

Finally comfortable in his borrowed clothes, or as best as he could get, and armed to the teeth, he grabs the key card and glances into the mirror one more time before he heads back out to the bar. He doesn’t double-take at his reflection, but it’s a near thing; he keeps expecting to see himself with a short cut, slicked back with pomade, and a light dusting of dark curls beneath the open collar of his shirt. Even after all the ways he’s changed since the war, his lack of chest-hair manages to catch him off-guard more than anything else.

Bucky’s hoping that Steve’s just stuck at the bar with Pietrovich, and Bucky can get mad at him later, once he’s fucked his relief into every inch of Steve.

Steve Rogers has only been able to flirt successfully with a total of two people: both of whom were born before 1925 and both had already decided they liked him before he’d even bothered to try. He’s a goddamn babe in the wilderness.

But there’s optimism and there’s stupidity. If Steve’s not at the bar, Bucky needs to find where he is. That’s why he came on this mission, that’s why he’s here. He’s here to keep Steve from doing something stupid and from having something stupid done to him. It’s like fucking 1938 all over again, and Bucky didn’t survive _that_ year just to have Steve go down in goddamn 2017.

Bucky pulls the door shut behind him and gives himself a little shake, trying to get into the mindset of the character he’s decided he’s playing, based on the little show he gave everyone at the bar earlier. Slutty, flirty, maybe not the smartest cat. But sexy as hell and looking for his pick-up. This, he can do.

***

Ibrahima Hoareau polishes another glass, sets it down, picks up the next one, then starts in on its water spots. There’s currently a brief lull in orders, and he’s not willing to risk getting yelled at over a less than perfect glass of scotch again, not when it could mean his job.

A gentle cough breaks him out of his reverie; he lifts his head to see the handsome young man who’d been at the bar earlier in the evening, over an hour ago by now. He’s considerably more dressed at the moment than he was, though no less attractive for it. Ibrahima inhales deeply, giving the glass a final swipe with his threadbare cloth before setting it down with the other glasses, all polished and ready.

“Yes, sir,” he starts, in French. “Something I can do for you?”

“ _I sure hope so_ ,” says the man, using the local Seychellois Creole instead. He’s clearly pegged Ibrahima as a local and - miracle of miracles - the white boy can speak it almost well enough to seem native-born. Ibrahima shifts his weight a bit, resting his hands on the bar instead of placing them on his belt, to adjust his pants. Futzing with them won’t somehow make them looser, rather, it would just call attention to the current problem.

He drags his focus back to his customer.

“ _I hope as well, my friend. A drink?_ ” Ibrahima pivots from his hips slightly, to point at the - rather impressive - collection of high-end liquors and spirits behind him

“ _No, thank you_ ,” the man says, smiling regretfully. “ _I’m looking for a good friend of mine. We’d met here, at the bar, earlier and he was to meet me at my room but never arrived. Perhaps you know where he went?_ ”

Ibrahima knows the man he means. He saw them before, talking closely, their heads bent towards one another. He’d made their drinks, and he’d determined they were an item, just waiting to fall into a room, into a bed. But it seems like something has risen to stand in the way of that. A pity, to be sure, as they would be a beautiful pair together.

He also knows who the friend left with, and there's no way Ibrahima is telling this handsome white stranger anything without knowing if the risk involved is worth the reward.

“ _Bartenders see all, as I’m sure you know. But we’re also counted on to keep those things close to the chest. I can’t garner a reputation as someone who spills secrets. That would be almost as damning to my career as being known for spilling fine wine or liquor._ ” Ibrahima watches the other man’s face, sees a dark and complicated shadow flicker across it, disappearing almost as quickly as it appeared; the man is back to being open and flirtatious as if he’d never changed at all.

“ _Ah, I see_ ,” he says, turning more completely towards the bar. “ _We’re concerned about reputation. Can’t have that, now, can we?_ ” He reaches into the right pocket of his slacks, eyes never leaving Ibrahima’s, and pulls out a roll of bills. With practiced, sharp movements, he snaps off ten crisp American hundred-dollar notes. They’re curled but fanned out in such a way so Ibrahima can see what’s being offered, but no one around the bar can tell what’s happening; a professional move.

Ibrahima’s brain kicks into high gear, and he’s hit with the realization that he’s being offered _one thousand American dollars_ for this information. And there’s still more money on the roll in the man’s other hand. He’s never seen so much money in one place; not even at this resort, and especially not in cash.

“ _Are you going to offer me that, when I know you have more in your pocket? What do I look like, a cheap date?_ ” Ibrahima’s already thinking about paying off his mortgage, buying a car, perhaps, even a plane ticket to the States. There are _so many_ possibilities for that kind of money, so many that he misses how the man shifts his weight, and the harder look that’s descended like storm clouds on other man’s face. He’s much too busy staring at the money to notice the man’s left hand, having let go of the remaining cash, reaching up to grab the back of his neck.

“ _I think_ ,” the man says slowly, a wicked smile curling across his face, not at all pleasant or amusing. “ _I think you’re getting greedy, and I can’t blame you. But I don’t have the time to fuck around with close-fisted bartenders right now; I have a man to save. So, I will ask you nicely once more, with this still on offer. If I have to ask again, I keep the money and I break your fingers. Your kneecaps, too, if necessary. And I still get what I want._ ”

Ibrahima can feel the beginnings of dark dread curling in the pit of his stomach, and when he swallows the man’s fingers pull the skin on his neck uncomfortably tight. He can’t tend bar if his fingers are broken; he can’t do much work on this island at all, and the other man knows it. The bills are still in the man’s right hand, fanned out on the bar.

“ _Your friend left with Mr. Petrovich. He has his own bungalow on the property. Just down the beach, but more private than the condos or hotel suites._ ” He’s shaking, cold but sweating. He can hear his own heartbeat. He’s going to die, he’s sure of it.

“ _And how long ago was that?_ ,” the man asks through gritted teeth.

“ _Less than a half-hour. It’s about a ten minute walk to the bungalow. They’d be there by now, I’m sure._ ” Ibrahima is not sure, but he’d tell the other man just about anything he wanted so long as Ibrahima is left with all his limbs intact.

The man squeezes Ibrahima’s neck once, twice, then letting go and pressing the cash into Ibrahima’s hand. Ibrahima looks down, wondering what he looks like holding this much money, let alone what it feels like. And then, suddenly, another wad of cash is thrust into his hand; the remainder of the roll from the man’s pocket.

“ _Anyone else comes asking, about my friend or me, or Mr. Petrovich, I need you to lie. Tell them something that’ll get ‘em headed in the wrong direction. I don’t care what, just not what you told me. You keep your end up, I’ll get even more to you. Got it?_ ”

“ _Yes, sir_ ,” Ibrahima wheezes out, not sure what to make of the whole encounter, but enough cash to prove he didn’t just dream the whole thing up, and that failing his responsibilities as a bartender was much more lucrative than the alternative.

“ _Thank you_ ,” the man says, sounding sincere, despite having just threatened Ibrahima’s life and livelihood mere moments ago. He looks tired for a second, something raw and natural about him now, and, like earlier, is gone as soon as it appeared. He throws a twenty on the bar, the way you would a tip, then taps the wood, like he’d just finished a good drink and was now ready to hit the road.

With that he stalks away from the bar, his whole body exuding a nonchalance Ibrahima knows is completely fabricated. It’s all an act, all a construct, a costume for the consumption of everyone else at the resort. _See what I show you, not what is really here_.

Ibrahima’s eyes follow the man, until a – supposedly former - Russian general takes a seat at the bar with one of his current ladies of the week and waves his hand to get Ibrahima’s attention. When he looks back, the man is gone.

Ibrahima pockets the money, deciding to take it somewhere safe on his next break, as to not keep it on his person. He pours the General’s whiskey on the rocks, and makes a Cosmo for the man’s date, all while thinking about the cash burning a hole in his pocket and the modicum of guilt weighing on his heart.

He’s just sent the man to murder Petrovich, he’s pretty sure. He’s never been so close to anything like this, despite having heard - and seen - so much while pouring drinks and bussing empty glasses. He could tell someone; he could call the bungalow. He has the number- he’d bartended private events there.

He could. But he won’t.

Petrovich never paid him well, never tipped for information, let alone thanked him. Even though he’d threatened him, the other man had paid Ibrahima more respect in under ten minutes than Petrovich had in the decade-and-change they’d been acquainted. He can still feel the imprint of the man’s fingers on the back of his neck, and the flooding sense of relief when he’d let go.

No, he’s not going to do anything but hide the cash and shut his mouth. He spots the next customer and molds his face into a customer-service smile. “My good sir,” he says brightly in his accented French. “What may I get you this fine afternoon?”

 

***

 


	2. keepin’ all my secrets safe tonight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Steve finds out just how bad a spy he is, Bucky finds Steve, and the bad guys find out why you don't put hands on Bucky Barnes' man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PLEASE see updated tags. If anything concerns you, please check out the author's note at the bottom of the chapter for additional info and trigger warnings, etc. 
> 
> This is the action chapter and it adds some slightly darker elements to the story. I've laid out the specifics in the author's notes at the bottom of the chapter, for anyone who needs spoilers before reading. Self-care and mental health are important, please do what you need to do in order to keep yourself safe and happy. 
> 
> I've added some new tags to the story to cover the additional elements introduced in this chapter. If anyone thinks there are any tags I missed, please let me know. I do my best but I don't always get everything covered, and I'm more than happy to add more as needed.
> 
> We will get to all the sexy times in Chapter 3, for anyone who has been wondering. :)

Calling it a bungalow would be misleading. The sitting room alone has more square footage than Steve and Bucky’s last apartment, and Bucky’d had that bookkeeping job with the steady paycheck that let them get the place with actual hot water, even if it was a shared bathroom. The property’s surrounded by a security fence and a series of thick necked goons with machine guns on their backs, plus fully automatic handguns on their hips. Nothing about the set-up is subtle, or even making an attempt at stealth.  

The whole walk from the bar, Petrovich’s hand is snug against the small of Steve’s back, firmly enough that Steve’s pointedly aware of it. He’d thrown back both drinks at the bar, tossed the glasses into the bushes, and from that point forward, he’s been on Steve like he’s Steve’s new suit jacket. It’s like when Buck would walk a lady friend home from the dance hall, but with a possessiveness and intensity Steve finds creepy and increasingly worrisome.   

Petrovich guides him between the two guards at the gate without acknowledging either of them, so Steve tries to do the same while making note of the weapon count, their make and model, as well as gauging the guard’s comfort and possible experience with them. The stone path up to the residence makes a soft clicking sound under his loafers, the bone-white pebbles knocking together as they walk; it’s almost musical against the counterpoint of the surf on the beach. 

Less than an hour after his adrenaline and testosterone fueled encounter with Bucky, his brain can’t help but find the beauty in the location, the romantic nature of the place. And then he remembers who he’s with. He pushes out a breath, very carefully and consciously not a sigh, and turns slightly to look at Petrovich. 

“This is beautiful, Mr. Petrovich.” He forces a smile, aiming for flirty but hoping he’s not landing on vaguely nauseous.   

“Please, all my friends call me Vlad. You are my friend, aren’t you, Mr. Montgomery?” Petrovich is breathing against Steve’s neck,  _much_  too close, and if Steve was still small, he’d be very, very worried about where this is heading. As it is, he’s placing all his bets on being able to fight his way out, thanks to the serum, if it comes to that, though he’s not even sure if that’ll shake out correctly.   

_Well, this is just stomach turning_ , he thinks. “Of course, Vlad. And, please. Call me Gabe.” It’s ashes on his tongue to use Gabe and Monty’s names like this but there’s an end goal here, taking down an illegal arms dealer who also dabbles in trafficking people and drugs, and is related, even if peripherally, to Hydra. 

Steve can’t stop thinking about Petrovich’s life in the Soviet military and the Russian FSB, the groups that used Bucky before he’d been sold to Hydra, like a piece of goddamn  _furniture_. If  Petrovich  had any direct involvement with the Winter Soldier, it would be a lot harder for Steve to take him in alive, like  T’Challa  requested. But that’s what it had been- a request. Steve keeps imagining punching him in the face, over and over, until  Petrovich  doesn’t  _have_ a face; Steve can’t control what happens out here, and Bucky’s living proof of that, in more ways than one. Steve swallows somewhat hysterical laughter, trying to compartmentalize his thoughts enough so he can somehow make it to tomorrow.  

“Gabe, then,” Petrovich practically purrs in Steve’s ear, like a giant rabid cat. The door to the bungalow swings open before they even step on the front porch, & Steve can make out another set of goons past the tall archway. “Please, let me mix you a drink and we’ll do business.  _Then_ pleasure. After you.” Petrovich pushes Steve forward through the door, following closely behind, barely giving him space to let his arms swing as he walks. 

A goon leads the way to an open-plan room that’s clearly designed to entertain any number of guests. Steve sits in the first chair he can find that won’t fit anyone other than him and lets his eyes wander. The room is strategically furnished, for the most part, but Steve’s art student heart soaks it in, then groans;  he can tell everything’s expensive, but not  _good_. Uncomfortable, extravagant furniture, and the art collection purchased by someone trying to show off their wealth but, to Steve’s eyes, showing their poor taste instead.   

“Here,” Petrovich holds out a heavy crystal tumbler, the weight of it more suited to a winter’s evening in front of a fire than a mid-afternoon dalliance at a tropical beach house.    

It’s pretty clear to Steve that Petrovich thinks he’s smooth.  _He’s not_.  

It’s also clear that he doesn’t know who Steve actually is, because Steve can taste the drug Petrovich dropped in his drink on the first sip. Who thinks they can drug the guy who can’t even get drunk?  He doesn’t swallow, lets the liquid drain back into the glass and sets it down on the little table next to his chair.    

“You were saying that the information was back here. I was hoping that meant you had it close to hand, Vlad.” Just saying the name makes Steve want to vomit, but he pushes against his nausea, swallowing the extra saliva that he realizes was caused by the small taste of whatever Petrovich put in his drink. “I have another appointment.”    

Steve looks at the watch Shuri gave him, seeing that he’s far past the window of time he’d given Bucky, and bites back a sigh. He fiddles with the band slightly, pressing the almost-invisible emergency button on the side of the watch. It’s the only option he has, other than waiting and trying to play this out. Besides, there is no way Bucky is still in that room. Not a chance. If he’s lucky, he’ll get back to the bar and Bucky’ll be waiting, drink in hand, annoyed.    

If he’s not, Bucky’ll show up at the bungalow and will throw off the whole game, and then where will everything be?    

Perfect. It’ll be perfect. He grins, lifting the glass back up to his mouth to hide it, at least a little, and pretends to drink more, letting the ice cubes rattle around in the heavy-cut glass.  

“You rush things, Gabe, much to everyone’s dismay, I should think.” Petrovich sits on the arm of Steve’s chair, leaning in close, his breath smelling overwhelmingly of alcohol and fish. It’s enough to burn the hair out of Steve’s nostrils.   

“I have a timeline, Vlad, just like everyone else. I explained that to you when I first asked about the information, and you-“ Petrovich reaches up and tips Steve’s glass back so the dosed drink pours into Steve’s mouth. It’s practically an automatic response to try to catch it with his tongue, to not let the brown drink spill on his shirt, to stain. He finds himself swallowing.  

“We all have timelines, Gabe. Some longer than others.” He leers and walks his fingers up Steve’s thigh, starting at his knee. Steve reaches out to grab Petrovich’s hand but jerks to a halt when he feels his head sway, like it’s too big for his neck.    

_Shit_.

So apparently, he was wrong and the drug does affect him. He rolls his eyes over to look at Petrovich, who’s watching Steve like a cat playing with a mouse.  

“Oh, did you not know, Gabe, that I knew who you are? Or should I say,  _Steve_. Would that be more honest of me, do you think?” Petrovich runs a finger down Steve’s cheek, landing on his lower lip and pushes into Steve’s mouth. Steve tries to bite the damn thing but can’t seem to make his jaw move, can’t make his mouth cooperate to spit it out.   

Petrovich licks Steve’s earlobe, then bites it. Steve can feel the skin break, but can’t move to push the guy away, or even make a sound to express his sincere and utter dismay at this turn of events.    

“I have a drug, you see,” Petrovich coos into his ear, licking at the welling blood. “We created it for your friend, Sergeant Barnes. It had to work very fast and hit very, very hard. It would kill a normal man almost instantly. But you, you are far from normal. Aren’t you, Captain?” Then he’s biting at Steve’s neck, one hand squeezing around his windpipe, making it even harder to breathe.  

“You and I are going to have a  _wonderful_ time, until our mutual friends get here to pick you up. They’re very eager to get you on their table. They’ve paid quite a bit of money to make that happen, and I won’t disappoint them.”  Petrovich  is still on with the smarm and the fake charm, despite the fact that Steve can’t move a single hair on his body at this point. It’s a nightmare come to life, memories of being young and deathly ill rushing back while Steve’s fighting off his imagination’s best attempts to show him the myriad ways this drug was used on Bucky. He’s hated a lot of people in his life, but  Petrovich  is at the top of the list right now, being that he’s currently alive and admitting to harming the one person Steve would do anything,  _anything_ _,_  to protect.  

“But,” Petrovich drones on, seemingly trying to get some kind of reaction out of Steve, even if it’s just in his eyes. “I didn’t make any promises about the condition I’d deliver you in. And, well, I just have to know if you’re anywhere near as fun as Sergeant Barnes. He and I had such a good time together, but, unfortunately, it ended much too soon.” 

That’s when the asshole pulls out the knife and begins cutting off the buttons of Steve’s shirt, one by one.    

Steve is still frozen in the chair, unable to move, barely able to roll his eyes. He’s waiting for his body to burn through the drug, but it’s damn persistent and taking what feels like, at least to Steve, an inordinate length of time to make its way through his enhanced system. He’d been betting on his body to beat this guy, and it looks like he’s lost that bet.    

Bucky’s going to kill him, if Petrovich doesn’t get there first.   

***   

 

The path to the cluster of bungalows is designed to look well-worn but it’s merely a well-designed, architectural element. The path clearly needs regular maintenance and gets it, from the looks of things, but doesn’t get the kinds of actual foot traffic that would be useful in order to, say, save Captain America from the jaws of a Russian murderer and known rapist.  

Bucky wants to be running. He wants to be running as fast as he possibly can.   

He can’t, though, not without giving himself away. He _knows_ Petrovich . He knows how the fucker operates, and he knows there are at least two guards on the edges of the property, and inside the house. He’s guessing on there being perimeter alarms along the sides and back of the property, which would get all the guards  a’running , which he doesn’t want, not in this fancy-ass getup; it’s more than likely that the front of the place isn’t  _as_ rigged, especially if armed guards are stationed there, where they can be seen easily.  

And there will be. Petrovich likes the look of showy excess, of what it says about a man that he needs dozens of bodyguards to protect him. The more power you have, the more men you need to guard you, seems to be his M.O..  

It’s all bullshit, of course. Steve and T’Challa are proof of that. Tony Stark. Thor. Bucky could go through the whole Avengers roster but stops himself before it becomes a distraction. 

He’s playing a part, at least until he gets through the door. Until Petrovich sees him in the flesh. He can do this. He’s done this before. Fuck, it’s for Steve of all damn people, it should be easy to focus.  

But it’s not. 

_Fucking_ focus,  _Barnes_ , he tells himself.  

The path. To the bungalow. The guards. Right.  

He’s alone. He can hear the waves crashing on the shore, which frankly would be romantic if he were officially here with Steve but he’s not, so it just annoys him. The wind through the leaves, birds and animals living their best lives in this island paradise. It’s all around him, with the scent of orchids overpowering most everything else.  

Bucky makes himself slow down. He loosens his hips, despite the tight pants, and shakes out the tension he’s been carrying since leaving the hotel room. He’s a good time guy, yeah? He’s a hot weekend fling, there to find some kind of sugar daddy on an island rife with them. He’s looking for his mark, looking for the one he’s already got on the hook. He’s not in a rush. He’s already gone the distance; he just needs to run through the finish line. 

He starts working what he knows to be a sexy strut fused with a confidant swagger he’d used before he’d ever even been drafted. He makes sure that he’s got enough buttons open on his shirt to show that he means business about pleasure. He lets his feet make noise on the pebbled path.   

It’s worked perfectly, because when he turns to take the arm of the path that’ll lead to Petrovich’s bungalow, he’s met by two heavily armed guards, with ear pieces, and serious frowns. 

“Hey,” Bucky drawls out, doing a flappy wave motion with one hand. “I’m glad to see somebody out here. You’d think there wasn’t anyone else on this island, with how quiet it is back here. Thought it was just me and the birds.” He makes a little giggle come out of his mouth, enough to make both of the brawny but not as observant as they should be guards in front of him lean back just a bit, getting comfortable with the idea that Bucky’s just some drunk manwhore looking for his ride, nudge nudge, wink wink,.  

“This is private property,” the one on the right grinds out, his English heavily accented with Russian. Bucky can tell the guy is from Siberia based on accent alone and feels bad that he’s going to ruin the guy’s vacation on such a beautiful island. Then again, the guy works for Petrovich, so fuck him.  _S_ _o hard_. 

“Oh, I am well aware, sailor. Are you a sailor? I’m assuming some kind of military based on the- look, I had a date lined up. I was told he’d come this way. Can you point me in the right direction?” 

The guards look at each other, then the one on the left looks up towards the house for a moment. Good, they didn’t head down to the water or to some kind of private boat house or something equally terrible. That makes it moderately easier, at least for someone of Bucky’s caliber. Bucky gives himself about ten seconds to look up at the house without moving into the realm of staring. From this vantage point, he can’t see any other guards in front of the house, and is assuming that a guy like Petrovich wouldn’t believe that his men at the front gate could be bribed or beaten, so he wouldn’t think it was necessary to have additional outside guards at the front door. 

If Bucky didn’t know Petrovich’s history, he’d think this was amateur hour.  

“I don’t think he’s expecting you,” the guard on the right says. And lucky for Bucky, these idiots think his fish on the hook is Petrovich. They haven’t even considered it could be Steve, which Is - even better, honestly.  

“Oh, he’s expecting me. I mean, look at these pants.” Bucky does a little half turn to display his ass to these idiots, Steve’s pants coming in handy. “These are not the pants of a man who just hoped he’d get let in through the front door, are they?”  

They totally are, but Bucky’s face doesn’t betray that. The two guards look at him and then each other and shrug. The one on the left presses on the ear bud and mutters something in Russian that Bucky can’t catch all of but it revolves around the guys in the house letting Bucky in.  

He wants to punch the air in victory. 

Instead, he waits for the guard to finish his conversation, then punches both of the guards in the face, at the same time. They aren’t expecting it, not from him, not at this point, and the one on the left goes down like a bag of wet sand, Shuri’s new arm packing  _quite_ a wallop, even from this distance and without too much leverage behind it.  

The guard on the right flails backwards but doesn’t go down that easily and fumbles to pull his gun up to shoot Bucky.  

Since his left arm is no longer occupied by dealing with the other guard, Bucky just twists at the torso and lets another punch fly. He hits that sweet spot on the guy’s face, where the force of his punch just sends that guy straight to dreamland - do not pass go, do not collect two-hundred dollars. In less than five minutes of first speaking to them, Bucky’s got both guards on the ground, hands and feet restrained with their own zip ties, and all their weapons carefully transferred over to his body.    

He stops and thinks about it for a minute, then decides on just one machine gun, the strap over his shoulder and the gun resting between his shoulder blades, down his back, and both handguns in the waistband of his pants, making them so tight he’s not sure he’ll ever be able to breathe a normal breath again, ever, until he dies.  

The distance up to the bungalow is both very long and very short, depending on what you need that distance for. He needs to look like a random resort guest who’s either very lost, or just what the crime lord ordered up. Having gotten past the front gate, he’s hoping the guards inside assume it’s the second.  

The door swings open just before he makes it to the front steps. Bucky doesn’t let it stop him, instead quickening his pace, to be polite and not make the guards wait on him any longer than necessary. They don’t know he’s willing to kill them to get to Steve; he’s hoping it won’t come to that, but he’s very clear on what will happen if it does. 

“ _What the hell do you want?_ ” This guard doesn’t even bother with English, his Russian as back alley and low brow as it gets. Bucky understands him perfectly but decides to pretend otherwise. 

“Sorry,” he says with a bashful grin. “Not sure what you’re saying, pal. I’m just here to meet a friend of mine. He told me to come on up and join the party?” Bucky plays with the top still-buttoned button on his shirt, pushing the wooden button in and out of the hole, his shirt opening a little bit more every time he does it. The guard’s eyes flit down to watch his hands, or more specifically, his chest.  

The other guard isn’t so distracted. “He  _s_ _aid_ ,” the guard starts, eyes sharp, gun at the ready. “What the hell do you want?” 

“I just told you,” Bucky frowns as he speaks and stops playing with the button. “I was invited. Vlad told me he was having a party. Or, well, a certain kind of party. I’d frankly assumed you’d be part of it, with what you two look like.” He feels gross saying Petrovich’s name with that kind of - lust, no matter how fake it actually was. His skin crawls a bit, and he tries to pretend that he can’t remember the last time he’d been in the same room as the guy. He doesn’t have to remember to know he’s bad news, so why poke that bear? 

The guard rolls his eyes and turns his head to look behind him. The distracted guard stares at Bucky’s chest for another second, then up to his face, a pink flush spreading from his cheeks down his neck and under the tight t-shirt that  _c_ _learly_ is part of the Petrovich guard uniform on this island.  

“Maybe,” the guard says with a stilted, uncomfortable tone. “Maybe you party with us first, yes? Then we take you.” 

“Party with you.” Bucky was tired of all this bullshit before he even got out of the water to meet Steve at the bar. He’s so far past done with everything that he’s slipping back into himself, into his own personality much faster than he should be.  

_Frankly, this is what happens when you stop sharpening a knife_ , he thinks to himself, then bites the inside of his cheek trying not to grimace.  

“I don’t think that’s what the guy had in mind. Besides, seems like you’re a little busy, on the job.” He smiles, trying to ramp up the flirting again, and angles his hips in those tight,  _tight_ pants directly towards the first guard. 

“Oh, we’ve got plenty of time. The boss has another guest and they’re already- occupied. It’ll be a long time 'til they’re through.” The second guard is laughing a bit, like this is  _s_ _o_  funny, and boy, won’t it just be a real hoot to have a go at the boss’s cheap fuck. Maybe the guy’s even thinking that he’ll just be loosening Bucky up for the boss, you know, as a  _f_ _avor_. 

But the thing that stabs Bucky in his brain and heart, and turns his not-insubstantial anger all the way up to eleven is the insinuation that Petrovich has already taken Steve somewhere. That he’s having his way with him. Bucky can’t hear anything, not a sound, even with his enhanced hearing, and he knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that Steve would do a lot of things to get the job done, but he’d never,  _ever_ fuck Vladimir  Petrovich . He’d blow the op first and hang the fucker off a roof by his toes before he’d have sex with someone that he didn’t actually want to have sex with. 

It’s not that Bucky thinks Steve is so loyal and true that he wouldn’t have sex with anyone besides Bucky. It’s more that Steve has never been comfortable with his body, with people looking at it, with people touching it, with it being something seen as a commodity. Even before the serum, when women would walk by and tousle his hair like he was a little kid, he’d hated it. He’d  _hated_ being poked and prodded when he was sick, in the hospital or visited by a doctor.  

After the serum, when people wanted to touch him to know that he was real, touch had taken on a new kind of meaning. Steve only wanted to be touched by people he cared about, and who cared about him. He didn’t want the cold hands of someone who only wanted to gain something from him, who wanted to  _profit_.  

It had been a nightmare, one Bucky understood all too well. He’d stopped wanting to be touched after Azzano, full-stop, a feeling that hadn’t quite dissipated entirely when he’d fallen from the train and landed in the laps of Hydra and the Russians.  

Steve would rather beat the truth out of a guy like Petrovich than let the guy touch him, especially in such an intimate way. So now Bucky knows he’s out of time; He needs to get in there, and fast, before something happens that Steve and his photographic memory won’t be able to forget.  

He’s got a handgun in both hands before either of the guards can blink, his face blank and cold, any pretense of being the cheap date gone and forgotten. “Okay, boys, guns down, hands up or I’ll have to put you down.” Man, that was so Jimmy Cagney. He’d have to remember to tell Steve about that one, once this was all over.  

The guards look at each other and Bucky can see they’re trying to make a plan without speaking, and he rolls his eyes. He’d been trying to do this the way Steve would want him to, but a line had been crossed and now it was up to the Winter Soldier to pull this op out of the tail spin it was so obviously in.  

“Okay, no takers? Too bad.” Bucky shoots each guard in the forehead, clean and neat, a bloom of red misting out behind them, coating the door and tile floor. The guards both seem to be frozen in mid-air for a second, then crumple to the ground like broken marionettes.  

A part of Bucky wants to feel bad. He’d wanted to let go of killing and death and shooting people as a first resort. The rest of him is screaming that he doesn’t have time to feel bad, or to think about the ethical and moral implications of straight-up murdering two men in cold blood; he needs to save Steve, and if that isn’t enough motivation, then Bucky has no idea what else would be.    

He steps over the bodies, avoiding the quickly-spreading pools of blood as best he can in his borrowed loafers, and slides the two handguns back into his waistband. He brings the machine gun around, his hands firm and steady, ready to fire, and listens for any other movement in the house.  

At first, there’s nothing. No people shuffling around in the kitchen, no one in the parlor or office just down the hall. Then he hears the creak of a floorboard just above him, and the sound of furniture squeaking as a heavy weight is set on it, and he knows  _exactly_ where Steve is.  

Bucky toes off his shoes to stay perfectly silent as he creeps up the stairs and then - gun at the ready, his body crouched low and as small as possible to avoid any shooters that might be ready for him on the second floor - he starts climbing up the staircase. 

  

*** 

  

Petrovich really likes his knife.  

He likes it so much, he’s used it to cut off all of Steve’s clothes, so that he’s naked on top of the duvet, body flopped around like a sock monkey. 

“Well, you are very pretty but I was expecting.” Petrovich waves a hand towards Steve’s crotch. “More to be happening. Maybe it’s the drug, eh? I’m sure you’d like to please me, wouldn’t you? This would all be much more pleasant if you were hard, but, then again, this isn’t really about you, is it?” 

Steve has never been less erect in his entire life. He can’t really feel his dick, but his head is at an angle that he can see that it has no intentions on participating in tonight’s activities, at least, not without external assistance.  

God, does Steve hate the idea of that assistance.    

Petrovich sets the knife down on the dresser and starts unbuttoning his shirt, which isn’t the right weight for this climate and, as such, is damp almost all the way through with sweat. It’s gross, and Steve is glad he can’t actually feel any of it touching his skin. Petrovich reveals his upper body, an expanse of skin so hairy it looks like he’s been wearing a sweater under his shirt the whole time, which, with the amount of sweating the man’s been doing, would explain a lot.  

He drops the shirt to the floor with a flourish, like Steve has any interest in what’s going on other than blind horror. The shirt gone, Petrovich starts a grotesque strip-tease with his belt buckle and pants, humming a song to himself that Steve’s betting the guy heard at a strip club at some point and is attempting to emulate some sexy dancer he saw once upon a time.  

It’s not working for Steve, that’s for sure. He closes his eyes for a second then they spring open again, the muscles in his face unable to hold them closed longer than a second or two. He can’t look away from this train wreck and he feels his chest getting tight, his anxiety from the situation sitting on him like the Hulk. 

He can get through this. He’s survived tougher things. Harder things. This is nothing. He tries repeating the phrase over and over again, in his head, hoping it’ll help relieve some of the tension throughout his body but can’t move to release it.   

It does not help.  

But then -    

He hears the door handle to the bedroom turn. It’s slow but steady and Steve can tell, based on the continuing stripping adventures of an old Russian General that Petrovich can’t hear it. The latch opens and the door swings inward, the hinges a bit squeaky, but clearly not that obvious. Steve doesn’t know what’s going on but he’s pretty sure, whoever it is, they don’t want Petrovich know they’re coming in. So, probably not his guards or another employee. 

_Dear Lord, please let it be Bucky._  

Petrovich’s humming stops abruptly, as if someone’s lifted the needle off a record, and Steve sees the barrel of a machine gun pressed to his temple.  

“Sergeant Barnes,” Petrovich says and Steve wants to turn his head to look at Bucky, because holy  _shit_ , he was here? He was really here? “How kind of you to join the party.” 

“Don’t.” Bucky says, his voice cold and sharp. He’s all business and Steve couldn’t be more relieved. “You of all people know better than to play that kind of game with me.” 

“ _Longing. Rusted. Furnace. Daybreak. Seventeen. Benign. Nice. Homecoming. One. Freight car._ ” Petrovich spits out the Russian trigger words Steve has practically tattooed on his heart and Steve starts struggling again, trying to force his body to get through the drug, to get rid of it, burn it out, because this is a real problem.  

Except -   

Except Bucky’s laughing. It’s barely this side of hysterical, but Steve can see his gun never waivers. Never shakes.    

“Pal, you’re just a little too late for that one. Don’t you know, there are people out there with technology much better than yours, and they were able to find a way around that crap.” Bucky stabs at Petrovich with the gun, jabbing the barrel of it into his temple, making him yelp in pain. “Where are the documents, Vlad? Where did you put it all? Or, maybe the better question is, where’s the safe?” 

Petrovich says nothing, just looks at Steve with wide eyes, like he’s begging Steve to do something. Even if he could, what, exactly, did Petrovich think he was going to do on that asshole’s behalf? Tell Bucky to leave him alone? What, did he think that Steve Rogers, Captain America, wouldn’t be okay with this kind of violence? Clearly, this guy had never read any of the real reports that’d come out of the missions he’d run with the Howling Commandos.  

The gun moves back, out of Steve’s line of vision and Petrovich closes his eyes, in resignation.  

There’s gun fire and Petrovich cries out, falling to the floor. Steve can’t see him once he’s fallen past the end of the bed, but then Bucky steps into view and Steve feels his previous tension evaporate.  

“I said, motherfucker,  _where’s the safe_?” The last part is in Russian. Steve assumes Bucky’s asking about the papers again, about a safe, but can’t be sure. His Russian is limited to little else besides Bucky’s triggers words, and there’s something about the language that makes him sad. He tries not to spend too much time on it, as to avoid wallowing.  

Petrovich replies in Russian and Steve sees a hand rise up, pointing towards the wall. Bucky fires the gun again, Petrovich crying out once more. And keeps crying. So, Bucky didn’t kill him, just hurt him. Which… isn’t great. Steve doesn’t like it.  

But he also doesn’t like being immobile on a bed, waiting to be consumed like a brunch buffet in Brooklyn, and he finds himself shaking on top of the covers, either the cool air-conditioned air or the sudden adrenaline spike and crash making his body unsteady and cold. 

Bucky pads across the room, out of Steve’s sight and then, Steve hears a crash and glass shattering - something framed thrown to the ground. He’d be worried about the art, if he wasn’t so sure it was terrible. He keeps blinking, letting the situation play itself out, because what the hell else is he going to do?  

  

*** 

  

“Ok, Stevie,” Bucky says, steady and sure. “We’ve got a safe here. What’s the combo, Vlad?” Petrovich whimpers on the floor. Bucky stares at him as his destroyed knees bleed out all over the fancy-looking rug. He’d never walk again without assistance. Which Bucky shouldn’t feel so bad about. “Don’t make me ask you again, Petrovich. You won’t like it.” 

“Twelve, eighteen, eighteen, seventy-eight,” Petrovich says, his chattering teeth causing him to stutter. He’s looking at Bucky with daggers shooting from his eyes, and Bucky can’t help but preen under the gaze. It’s always nice to know that the assholes you hate, hate you back just as much. 

He spins the dial, settles it on the first number on the combo, then stops, freezes more like, and looks at Petrovich with a sense of wonder and not a little horror. “Are you fucking kidding me,” Bucky asks. “Stalin’s birthday? You are a piece of shit.” 

“You’re too late, you know.” Petrovich says as Bucky lands on the last number and turns the handle. The safe pops open, reveals a space packed with files, loose papers, legal envelopes, and what looks to be a few hand guns, Saturday night specials if Bucky can make a guess without actually picking them up.  

“Oh, yeah?” Bucky says, turning back with his gun aimed at Petrovich’s head. “For what, exactly? Be very specific.” 

“I’ve already called my contacts in Hydra. And a General Ross. Both of whom are willing to bid for your friend here. They want him alive, which really means they want his body breathing, even if his brain is dead. They want you, too. You'll be the icing on a very muscular cake. They’re on their way, you know. You won’t get off the island before they arrive.”  

“Oh, yeah?” Bucky says again, taking a few steps forward toward the General. “You think so?”   

“I know so,” Petrovich groans, unable to keep taunting them while he bleeds, and bleeds, and  _bleeds_. It can’t be pleasant. Bucky wishes he could make it worse without proving he’s exactly as terrible as they all believe he is. He almost doesn’t care. 

“What makes you think we don’t have help on the way, ourselves, hmmm?” 

“Because Captain Rogers isn’t the brightest bulb in the box, Sergeant Barnes, and it’s clear he didn’t plan for things to go this way. Although, that worked out well for me. He’s got a great ass.” 

Bucky’s beside the guy almost instantly. He raises his gun, aiming at Petrovich’s forehead, just as he’d done with the guards downstairs, and  _breathes_. In on a count of five, out on the same. He stares at Petrovich, who’s naked except for a pair of white briefs and his suit of body hair. He’s covered in blood, panting hard with the pain, and Bucky can finally see how pathetic and small the man truly is. 

“That ass belongs to me.” Bucky grinds out, trying not to bite his own tongue with how sharply he’s speaking.  “It always has, and it always will. I may lend it out to appropriate parties as needed, but it’s still fucking  _MINE_ and you don’t get to touch it. People who touch my things without permission lose a hand. Or worse.”  

Bucky wants to see Petrovich go down for everything he’s done. He wants the man to rot in jail, or, -even better - see him taken out by his own organization after he’d ratted on them (which was a given once the charges started raining down and the multiple life sentences or, more than likely, the threat of execution, would get him to sing. It would be  _glorious_.)  

But that wouldn’t happen if Bucky killed him.  

Instead, he unhooks the machine gun strap from over his shoulder and swings down with the butt of the gun, smashing Petrovich in the side of the head, knocking him out cold. 

Once he’s sure the guy is completely down for the count, Bucky’s up on the bed where Steve is still trapped, his eyes rolling around in his head, clearly not sure what’s going on and, not that he’d ever really admit it, scared.   

Bucky sets the gun next to him, not too far away in case any guards show up, or anyone else that’s more sympathetic to Petrovich’s side of things, and takes Steve’s face between his hands. He turns Steve’s head and neck slowly, gently, unsure if there are any injuries they need to be worried about, and looks into Steve’s eyes, trying to make sure he’s got his full attention. 

“Steve, hey, Steve. Baby, come on, look at me. It’s me, It’s okay. We’re both okay. I got the stuff, I’m pretty sure, and Petrovich isn’t going anywhere unless it’s with the proper authorities. And we’re gonna get you taken care of, for sure, okay? Sweetheart, I need you to let me know you can hear me. Can you hear me?” He’s starting to worry there’s something else going on with the drug in Steve’s system until Steve finally meets his eyes, and blinks once. Twice. A third time. Deliberate.  

Bucky grins, his face stretching and pulling like taffy, still feeling unnatural and uncomfortable, despite his memories reminding him that he’d been like this most of his life. Happy. Satisfied.  

In love with Steve.  

There’s a crash and a bang, and Bucky let’s Steve’s head flop back onto the bed, as he spins on his hip and brings the machine gun back up to bear. He’s holding it steady, ready to fire, when a gloved hand pops through the door and waves.  

“Hello? Sergeant Barnes? Captain Rogers?” 

Wait a second. “T’Challa?” Bucky asks, confused and a little worried that he’s been shot and having a weird kind of fever-dream. “Is that you?” 

T’Challa’s head, wearing that ridiculous and yet totally bad ass Black Panther costume, follows his hand through the doorway and then, there he is, standing over Petrovich’s (still breathing, Jesus) body, looking back and forth between the bleeding man on the floor and the naked Steve on the bed. “Yes, as you can see, it it me. Unless you question my true identity?”  

Bucky snorts. “No, I’m sure you’re you. Not sure how you got here so fast, though.” 

“Captain Rogers triggered his alarm. We were...informed by Agent Romanoff that Captain Rogers is not the strongest undercover agent available, which, unfortunately, he had not shared that information with us himself. Her concern about the situation had us waiting on a different island in the chain, to see if we were needed. Clearly, we were.” 

Bucky puts the gun down on the floor and starts adjusting Steve’s limbs into a more comfortable position, then pulls the duvet around him to keep him warm. Steve’s body is still shaking even though he still can’t seem to move anything on purpose.  

“Since you’re here an’ all, there’s a safe on the wall, full of the stuff you wanted.” He lifts Steve’s head up and slides a pillow behind his neck so he’s in an easier position than how he’d previously been propped up against the headboard. “Think we could get someone to help out with Steve, here? I think I’ve had about enough of his dead Pinocchio routine.” 

Bucky presses his hand against Steve’s face and smiles at him, trying to be reassuring. Steve’ll be alright. If Shuri could come up with a way to fix Bucky and his trigger words, then they’d for sure be able help Steve.  

  
“Medical attention from parties we trust is already on the way, Sergeant Barnes. The Captain will be just fine.”  

Bucky doesn’t look up from Steve, despite knowing it’s rude, especially since T'Challa’s a King and all. But it doesn’t seem to bother him whatsoever. Bucky can hear him rummaging around the safe, pulling out papers, rustling as they slide against each other.  

Steve’s face turns a bit more in Bucky’s grip and Bucky leans down closer, his heart beating a bit harder. “Steve? You startin' to feel a little better?” 

“Bucky,” Steve’s voice sounds like the hiss of air from a slowly leaking tire. It’s barely even a word, but Bucky knows what he says. He knows Steve better than anyone on the planet, probably better than he knows himself.  

“Yeah, sweetheart,” he says to Steve, pressing his lips to Steve’s temple. “I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.” 

  

*** 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Notes about the chapter:  
> For anyone who may need to know more specifics before deciding to read this chapter, here are the dirty details that I believe could be triggering. If you read this chapter and think I need to mention anything that I don't already have listed, please let me know. 
> 
> Petrovich is a real scumbag, who drugs Steve's drink with a chemical that was designed for the Winter Soldier, because he actually DOES know Steve really is. 
> 
> His plan is to drug Steve, rape him, and then sell him to Hydra or General Ross, whomever shows up first and has the best offer. He hints to Steve that he had similar contact with Bucky, back when he was with the Russians and the Red Room.
> 
> The drug does work on Steve, effectively trapping him in his body, leaving him unable to move. Petrovich gets Steve into his bedroom and gets him naked, but Bucky shows up before Petrovich does anything beyond that. 
> 
> Bucky beats up a few guys, straight up kills a few guys, and blows Petrovich's knees out, because he's a scumbag and he deserves it. 
> 
> Steve is not sexually assaulted, but being drugged and stripped doesn't feel great. Petrovich also bites him in a few places, in ways that aren't comfortable or sexy.


	3. baby, baby, darlin’, you’re the best

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein our heroes actually have a second to talk, at least a little bit, and then they have sex. Lots and lots of sex.

There’s a doctor who came on the Quinjet with T’Challa. He’s been vetted by both the King and his sister, and, no offense to T’Challa, but Bucky’s faith is in Shuri, now and forever. She’s a miracle worker, he’s living proof of that, and if she thinks the doctor is good people, who the hell is Bucky Barnes to question her?

On top of everything, Petrovitch wasn’t lying when he said there were people on the way.

“General Ross has boarded a military Quinjet at the Pentagon, and it is assumed he is headed this way.” T’Challa’s sits on the tiny desk chair that was most likely meant to be decorative, based on its size and apparent sturdiness, but T’Challa is using that grace of his to make it look stable and comfortable. “I have sources who say it’s heading here, with a stop off in Turkey, although that maybe some kind of subterfuge at this point. But we will need to keep you and the Captain contained, as not to  attract his attention.”

“Do you think we could move this party to somewhere else, then? It seems stupid to stay in this asshole’s house if Ross is planning to come here.” Bucky’s starting to get squirrely in this stupid house, limbs all twitchy, all except the metal one.

“Oh, Ross won’t make it this far. Of that I am certain, Sergeant. We have people, and I’ve arranged for a large donation to the Seychelles’ endangered species program, which has garnered us considerable goodwill. General Ross won’t manage to get through much of the considerable red tape thrown at him before we have you both safely back in a suite at the hotel, where you’ll wait while we get the rest of this cleared up.”

Steve’s starting to move now, his head and shoulders looser, his eyes and mouth free from the drug. He’s curled up against Bucky with the duvet wrapped tightly around him, despite being on a tropical island with outside temperatures in the mid-nineties. He’s slowly regaining his mobility, but he’s still shaking. Bucky thinks Steve won’t admit that part, especially not in front of T’Challa, but it’s there.

Bucky runs his fingers through Steve’s hair, keeping it off his face and out of his eyes, since he can’t do it himself just yet. He takes the opportunity to run his fingers over Steve’s beard, the coarse but still soft hair under his fingers so different than what he’d been expecting it to feel like. Steve hadn’t been able to grow one before, and as Captain America, on the front, he’d been clean shaven and proper at all times, even when Bucky and the other Howlies were not.

“Bucky needs to get out of here, I don’t care how fancy your tech is,” Steve mutters, able to speak, just not all that loudly. Bucky rolls his eyes because it’s so typically _Steve_.

“Oh, yeah, I’m gonna leave you here and run off on my own, after all of this. Sure, pal. Why don’t you try pulling the other one.” Bucky flicks the edge of Steve’s ear, then runs a finger over the area to soothe it, needing to give Steve shit _and_ making sure he isn’t suffering. It’s a hard line to walk, but Bucky’s willing to do it.

“Ow,” Steve grumbles, and burrows deeper into the blanket, hiding his face in a move that’s classic tiny Steve, and Bucky hasn’t seen in a very long time.  

“You Highness, I think the Captain and I need a minute.” Bucky gives T’Challa a look, one that’s far from appropriate when directed at a fucking _king,_ but it’s one Bucky’s seen Shuri give her bother, and decides, fuck it, why not just be himself and deal with the fallout later, if T’Challa is offended. All he does, though, is give Bucky the same look he’d give Shuri and stand up from the wobbly chair like he’d just been sitting on the Rock of Gibraltar, as steady as you please.

“I’ll round up the doctor and have him head up then. In case we don’t speak again before I leave, gentlemen, I wish you the best recovery and I will see you both in Wakanda shortly.” With a little salute, T’Challa walks out the door and pulls it shut behind him, closing with a quiet click. It’s weird to see T’Challa in the Black Panther suit, but with the hood down and the gloves off. It’s not quite as disconcerting as watching the Hulk turn back into Dr. Banner, but it’s a dissonance, even so.

Now they’re alone, and there aren’t any screaming, crying Russian Generals on the floor, and nobody’s asking questions or checking their weapons or walking around the house in large groups, setting off every groan of wood settling and squeak of hinges that need oiling. It’s quiet and, despite being the one to send T’Challa out of the room, Bucky isn’t quite sure how to start this conversation.

Steve turns his head towards Bucky, though, uncovering his face, and, without looking directly at him, says, “If you’re going to ask, I’d prefer you do it now, when I can’t run away, then later, when I’ll have to decide if I want to or not.”

“Do you really want me to ask, Stevie? I mean, I can pretend that I did and that you answered, and that we’re totally good with both my question and your answer, and we’ll move on like we took care of it. Like adults.” Bucky’s smiling but it’s his sad smile. He knows because he can feel it, in his chest. He starts running his fingers through Steve’s hair again, taking note of the bite mark on his ear lobe that’s crusted up into a scab but hasn’t healed as quickly as it should with Steve’s serum.  Bucky looks down Steve’s neck, the curve of it heading towards Steve’s strong, broad shoulders, and sees more bite marks, dark purple and red.

He wants to press a finger to them, wants to set his own mouth on them, to replace one man’s teeth and recreate them with his own. But he’s pretty sure Steve isn’t up for that at the moment, possibly never, so he keeps his touch light and gentle.

“Yeah. Just do it.” Pull the bandage off, he’s saying. Bucky’s pulled off a lot of bandages for this asshole over the years and knows it’s best to get a good grip and _yank_.

“Had to be pretty scary, not being able to move at all. How far’d that guy get, with the naked touching and all that?” Bucky’s trying to keep it light, but he’s back to Steve’s hair, petting him like he would the cats who roam the Wakandan royal palace. Gentle, consistent, familiar.

Steve snorts and grumbles into his own hands, then sighs. “Not very, if we’re getting technical. Cut my clothes off. Got a little handsy but I really couldn’t even feel it.” He closes his eyes when some of his hair gets caught between Bucky’s fingers and there’s a bit of a tug on his scalp, but he opens them again after a minute and looks right at Bucky. “He was threatening you. Me. Selling us to the highest bidder, to be dissected. And I just kept thinking about those files. What I saw about what happened. To you. And I couldn’t stand it. I wanted to bash his face in, but I _couldn’t_.”

“Okay,” Bucky starts, leaning back against the headboard, pulling Steve along with him. “You’re upset because the guy wanted to do bad shit to me?”

“Yeah.” Steve says. “I mean, other stuff too, but the stuff about you was the worst, I think. Just, I couldn’t…” He trails off and hides his face again.

“Oh, Stevie, you are just… I don’t know what to do with you. Ever. Other than love you, you big, dumb lug.” Bucky leans down to kiss Steve’s temple and doesn’t keep pressing it. Steve actually told him things. Like, actual _feelings_. Which, woah. So he’s not going to push his luck, not on this.

There’s a knock at the door and it opens a crack.

“Hello? Captain Rogers? My name is Doctor Okadigbo, I was brought here by his Highness -”

“Yeah, okay, come on in.” Bucky doesn’t need to hear the whole spiel, he just needs someone to take care of Steve.

The doctor is kind, which is refreshing, and has a gentle touch, which he honestly does as little of as possible while still actually examining Steve. Bucky helps to unwrap him and get him vertical, sitting behind him to make sure his head doesn’t flop around like a dead fish. Bucky makes sure to keep his hands on Steve’s body, to in some way be reassuring and grounding.

It’s what he’d have wanted, any time he’d needed to see a doctor of any kind over the past seventy years. It’s what he never got. He pulls Steve back against him even tighter.

“Well,” Dr. Okadigbo finally says, sitting on the edge of the bed, scribbling some notes on a legal pad. “I can’t see any reason why this won’t just work itself out of your system, Captain Rogers. We can try something intravenously to help hydrate you and get your system pushed into overdrive, but I can’t see it helping to a scale that would make a considerable difference. But if it makes you feel better, mentally, then it is still something worth considering.”

The doctor looks right at Steve, never turning to Bucky to see what he thinks, because really, it doesn’t fucking matter. Steve is his own man, and while he might ask Bucky for his opinion, his health and bodily autonomy should belong to him. Bucky can’t help but feel a little bit of love for Dr. Okadigbo, for understanding what Steve needs, beyond just the physical, and his commitment to doing what Steve wants, even when Steve decides to be a bad patient.

“No, thank you,” Steve says. And that’s it. Which. Okay. Bucky isn’t sure what to do with that.

“Steve. Come on.”

“I’ll be fine,” Steve says, setting his jaw, and there’s Bucky’s boy, right there. He’d say he’s sorry to see stubborn, bullheaded Steve, but he’d be lying.

“Okay,” Bucky replies, needing a second, so he hides his face in the back of Steve’s neck and just breathes.

“That’s certainly fine,” the doctor tells them, getting up off the bed and collecting his things, including his notebook. “The Princess has asked that I pass on any notes to her and the medical team for your files at the palace. Is that acceptable, or would you prefer that they blow away in the harsh tropical winds or some such thing?”

He looks back and forth between Bucky and Steve now, eyes clear, face blank. He’s serious, Bucky knows, and there’s something else there, a delicate expression of unwanted experience that Bucky can relate to. Dr. Okadigbo is loyal to his king, that’s clear, but he _knows_. He won’t betray them, even to Shuri, if they don’t want him to.

Bucky swallows and shakes his head gently. “That’s not necessary. She… I trust her. Please don’t do anything that would compromise yourself, not for us. It’s not… No. But thank you. That means-“

“Everything. It means everything. Thank you.” Steve cuts in, eyes shimmery in the dim light, and he squeezes the arm Bucky’s got wrapped around his chest with all the strength he’s gotten back. It’s a good feeling.

“Then, gentlemen, I will take my leave. It’s been an honor. Captain. Seargrant.” The doctor tips his head to both of them and shuts the door behind him when he leaves.

***

In order to reduce attention, which is already proving difficult, Bucky carries Steve, still wrapped up in that fucking duvet (Bucky’s going to burn the fucking thing, just see that he doesn’t) out the back door to a golf cart with covered sides. They can travel the various paths around the resort without anyone seeing who’s on the cart.

“I’m not a goddamn baby, Buck.”

“That’s for damn sure. You weigh as much as a Panzer. If I didn’t have this reinforced arm, I’d’a dropped you three steps out the door.”

“Fuck you,” Steve grumbles but he’s smiling. Which is all Bucky can ever ask for, really. Maybe a well-made rifle, with unlimited ammo, but Steve’s smile is the top of the list.

The golf cart is driven by a member of T’Challa’s staff, conveniently dressed in the resort uniform polo and shorts. He’s got a working badge that gets them into the hotel parking facility, where he drives them to a service elevator and uses his badge there, to get them to the twenty first floor.

Bucky stands with his back against the back wall, holding Steve, body tense, ready for anything to come at them. He’s assuming since no one’s riding in the elevator with them that the entire elevator and back area of the hotel have been secured but he can’t know that if they don’t tell him for sure, and besides, he’s always been a worrier. Especially when it’s about Steve.

The elevator doors open directly into the room, which turns out to be a suite, which just might stretch the length of the entire hotel. (It, unfortunately, does not.)

Bucky steps off the elevator with Steve, his jaw dropping a bit, taking it all in. He has never, in his entire life, stayed in a place this nice. “I don’t even know if I killed people in rooms this nice, Steve,” he mutters, trying not to sound like some backwards hick from farm country.

“Let’s see what the bedrooms are like,” Steve says, sounding like he’s barely awake, which has to be true, because he’s just ignored Bucky’s last statement and Bucky was sure that’d get him some kind of reaction. But it makes sense. His body’s fighting the fucking drug, the effects of which Bucky is keenly aware from personal experience, and it’s taking it out of him.

It’s been a long fucking day and all Bucky wants to do is crawl under the covers with his best guy. So that’s what they do.

***

Neither of them do much moving for the next three days.

***

Steve knows he’s finally over it when he gets that itch under his skin. The feeling that if he doesn’t do something with his body, all his molecules are going to separate and reform into something else. He’s never sure what he’s going to reform as, but it’s there, that feeling.

He gets out of bed first, takes a long, very hot shower, and pulls on some of his own clothes, for the first time in more than two weeks, since he started this crazy undercover op. He calls down for breakfast to be sent up, ordering enough to feed eight, knowing he and Bucky will plow right through it.

Room Service is used to them by now and doesn’t say a word or ever raise an eyebrow, especially since Bucky had made sure the tip on the slip was extremely excessive, every time. Steve makes sure to raise the bar this morning as well.

He’s sitting at the glass breakfast table, chair facing the large bay of windows, tinted in such a way that they can see out but others can’t see in, when Bucky shuffles his way out of the bedroom.

“There’s coffee,” Steve says around a mouthful of French toast. Bucky just grunts, which Steve has always interpreted as ‘thank you’ since they were kids.

After Bucky’s had a chance to drink three cups of his excessively sweetened coffee, and eaten his weight in bacon and eggs, Steve sets his own cup on the table and crosses his legs as he leans back in his chair.  “So, the other day.”

“Yeah,” Bucky says, slurping another gulp of coffee out of his cup, raising both eyebrows in Steve’s general direction.

“You, uh, seemed pretty happy to see me. And I gotta say, that might have been the best surprise I’ve had, since I learned you weren’t, you know…” He can’t say it. Even now, with Bucky close enough to touch, Steve can’t talk about Bucky being dead without his throat closing up and his eyes watering dangerously.

“You did seem pretty happy to see me, I’ll agree with you there.” Bucky leans his elbows on the table and grins. “I guess you really liked my suit.”

Steve gulps and takes a breath. He _really_ liked the suit. “I was hoping that your offer was still on the table. So to speak.”

“Baby, do you even have to ask?” Bucky’s leer takes Steve back to those days when they’d head out to a dance hall together, sometimes to those secret ones, where it didn’t matter if they danced together, no matter how poorly Steve moved, or how closely Bucky pulled Steve to him. It’s making Steve’s heart beat faster, his breath coming more rapidly, but in a way that feels good and not like he’s about to pass out. It’s an important and refreshing distinction.

“I mean, we haven’t talked about a lot of things, not since…” Not since everything. Tony. Siberia. Running away.

They had a few nights in Wakanda, where they were both beat to shit and could do nothing else but curl around one another and pretend they weren’t weeping on each other. And then Bucky was frozen again, and Steve was left to wait.

“That’s true. But, you know, I loved you when I fell. I loved you when I left for England that first time. Fuck, Steve, I loved you when I threw that first rock at Bobby O’Reilley ‘cause he stole your lunch bucket, and we ain’t said even one word to each other at that point. I’m not seeing any reason why now should be any different.” His grin’s gone softer but he’s still staring at Steve’s face with an intensity that’s almost unbearable. If it weren’t Bucky, Steve wouldn’t be able to sit there, under its scrutiny.

“If that’s the way it is, then, what are you waiting on? We ain’t getting any younger.” Steve smirks at his own joke and Bucky rolls his eyes, but stands up from the table.

“Luckily for you, I washed the salt out of my suit when I did this shit the last time.”

“Forget the suit,” Steve’s mouth opens and the words fall out. He’s not even thinking about them, they just tumble to the table, fully formed and articulated in his voice. “You were supposed to be waiting for me, wearing less clothes. I’d like to see what that looks like.”

“Well, shit, Steve. If you’re that thirsty, just drink some juice.”

“What?”

“Never mind, just something Shuri said.” Bucky bends down to kiss Steve on the lips, then saunters back to the bedroom. “Give me fifteen minutes, then come on in. I’ll be waiting.”

Steve alternates between watching the clock and reading a paperback he’d picked up at the resort gift shop, but he can’t concentrate on the story, and the clock is moving so slowly, it feels like it’s going backwards, just to spite him. He’s changed out of his “Steve” clothes and into his “Gabe Montegomery” duds, minus the underwear. He just doesn’t see the point, unless you’re trying to frustrate yourself.

When the red numbers on the digital display click over to the proper time, Steve’s on his feet and headed back to the room.

He slides open the doors and stops dead in his tracks as he sees what Bucky’s put together for him. It’s enough that he almost chokes on his tongue.

Bucky’s done his hair, probably showered, and positioned himself on the bed in a pose designed to achieve maximum naked bang for Steve’s buck. Heh.

And it. Is. Glorious.

But, there’s something in Steve now that isn’t quite as happy about it as he thinks he should be. Bucky laying there, waiting for him, offering himself. It feels too much like… well, what happened to Steve. And it’s not the same thing, not even close, but Steve’s brain hasn’t quite pulled those concepts apart yet and he has to close his eyes and breathe.

“Steve?”

“I’m fine,” he says, eyes still closed. He’s got his hand on the door frame, propping himself up. “I just need a minute.”

And then there’s a body up against his, and he jumps back, startled and still uneasy with touch and his body and where his body is in relation to other people.

“Hey,” Bucky says, running a hand down Steve’s flank, gentling and kind. “We don’t have to do anything today. Or ever, really. It won’t change anything, not for me.”

Steve can hear Bucky saying similar things, from back when Steve was a tiny thing, his circulation poor, his lungs terrible, his body unable to sustain an erection or even get one on certain days, and he’d been so ashamed, so embarrassed to admit that to Bucky, who was, at least to Steve, the paragon of health, vitality and virility.

When Bucky had finally finagled the truth out of him, and Steve had been so worried Bucky would laugh in his face, Buck had just pulled him close and reassured him that it didn’t matter. Those things weren’t why Bucky would or would not love Steve. He’d love him if he were a robot from Mars who had no genitals and no ability to have intercourse whatsoever. Actual words spoken by James B. Barnes.

It had been such a relief back then, and now here he was, again, needing Bucky to reassure him that the physical elements of their relationship weren’t deal breakers. If he couldn’t do anything today, or tomorrow, or forever, he wouldn’t get kicked out. It would just be something they’d have to circumnavigate.

“Come on, let’s lay down for a minute, take a breath.”

“Okay,” Steve breathes out and lets Bucky pull him to the bed by his hand.

“Wanna leave your clothes on?” Bucky asks him as he fluffs the pillows a bit and pulls the covers back. Steve nods, even though Bucky can’t see him, but he still presses Steve gently onto the sheets and pulls the comforter up and over him, clothes and all.

Bucky climbs in with him, still completely naked, and pulls Steve right up against him, pressing Steve’s head to his shoulder, slotting them together under the covers, over and under each other, creating a single unit out of their two bodies. Their heads aren’t completely covered, but there is a sense that they’re secluded away from the rest of the world, even more so than just being in their suite.

Steve can hear his own breathing, can feel as it syncs up with Bucky’s, the light gusting of his exhalations soft on Steve’s cheek. He closes his eyes, the sensations almost too much.

Bucky’s hand cups that same cheek, warm and callused, kind. “What’s going on up there, Stevie, huh? What’s making you sad?”

And it’s 1940 all over again. Steve can smell the rain from the open window, can hear the Robertson kids yelling as they run up and down the hallway, trapped inside on this stormy fall day, but he and Bucky haven’t bothered to get out of bed. Steve’s bones hurt, head to toe, and his chest feels like it’s been wrung through a hand washer by the circus strong man. Bucky’s resting his hand on Steve’s face, asking him the same question. “What’s making you sad?”

“I don’t know,” he wheezes out, trying to contain the sobs, the sorrow he’s bottled up for _so long_ that now wants out, even though he’s got Bucky back. “I’m supposed to be so happy, and I am. But it’s not fair, Buck. It’s not fucking fair-“ He can’t hold them back any longer and the tears come.

Bucky pulls him in closer, wrapping his arms around Steve, even tighter, pressing his lips against Steve’s ear, talking to him with that calm, collected voice that always helped talk Steve down from an asthma attack or a panic attack or whatever. Whatever Steve needed. Steve pulls Bucky even closer, bringing his legs up to encircle Bucky’s hips and thighs, not able to find anything that’s even remotely close enough.

“That’s right, sweetheart. You just let it all out,” Bucky’s saying in his ear. “I’m right here, baby. Right here. And I’ve got you. I’ve got you.” Over and over, he says it. Over and over, and Steve can’t get enough of it.

And then, Bucky’s pressing kisses to the side of Steve’s head, behind his ear, his temple, below his ear, along the column of his throat, all the while talking. The tears are slowing and Steve’s realizing that the sorrow he needed to let go of has gone, at least for a minute, and in its place is a tiny sliver of hope and a larger slice of something else.

“I’m here, baby,” Bucky’s saying, kissing under Steve’s chin. “You’ve got me and I ain’t going anywhere.”

Steve loosens the grip he’s had with his right arm and wriggles it loose, reaching up with his right hand to press along Bucky’s chin and cheek, pushing his face back, just a bit, and up, closer to Steve’s.

Then he’s kissing Bucky’s lips like they’re the fabled milk and honey of the promised land. And to Steve, they absolutely fucking are.

***

Bucky feels it in his dick when Steve’s switch flips. There’s a shift in the energy, from the lowly banked coals they’d been tending to a raging forest fire, and Bucky is here. For. It.

He’d been ramping himself up, his full body contact with Steve more than enough to give him a raging hard-on. But he would have waited til the second coming (heh) if that’s what Steve needed. Apparently, that’s _not_ what he needs, because now he’s pulling Bucky up his body with one hand, pressing their hips together with his other hand, their dicks separated by a thin layer of those fucking future pants and that’s about it.

Bucky doesn’t wait for Steve to say anything else. He _knows_ his boy and he grins against Steve’s mouth, but just for a second, before Steve snags his bottom lip between his teeth and pulls. Bucky groans, his cock throbbing. Steve pulls even harder then lets go, only to aim for Bucky’s neck instead. “Fuck, Stevie. That’s… Jesus.”

“Nope, just me, Buck. But I can see how you’d get confused.” Steve laughs at his own joke because he’s an idiot, but a hot idiot, and he’s packing some serious heat in those future pants, so Bucky’ll let it slide. He focuses on his own body so he can get one of his own arms free, and starts undoing the buttons on Steve’s shirt.

In what seems like an instant, he’s got the fucking thing undone and pushes the shirt off Steve’s shoulders and down his arms, which means he’s got to let go of Bucky for a minute, but their legs are still tangled together so it’s okay. They scramble a bit, coltish and unsure with their bodies this close together and limited room to move, but then, Steve’s shirt is gone and on the floor.

“Now we’re cooking with gas,” Bucky says, leaning on one elbow, using the fingers of his other hand to run from Steve’s neck to his pecs and his nipples, where Bucky plucks at them like guitar strings then tugs, making then stand at attention for him. He slides a hand across Steve’s ribs, then down his flank, leaning forward to take a nipple in his mouth. He uses a mix of sucking and strategic biting, a combo Steve had loved long before he’d become Charles Atlas, and with a well-placed press of canines, he gets what he was looking for: a high pitched whine and the arching of Steve’s back that’d make the Arc de Triomphe jealous.

“Fuck, Bucky, fuck, yeah, oh, that’s the ticket, holy shit…”

“You like that, do you?” Bucky teases. He blows cool air across the wet one before switching to the other nipple. He gets a full body shiver out of Steve, which reminds him that Steve’s still got his fucking pants on. The linen rubs just this side of the wrong against Bucky’s dick, and he needs to use a hand to readjust himself, before deciding that the pants need to go and he’s going to be the one to get rid of them.

He ducks under the covers and, undoing the button then lowering the zipper of the fly, he pulls Steve’s pants down off his hips and ass, noticing that yep, Steve had gone commando which was so fucking hot, and because of that, his dick bounces up and out of the pants a lot faster than Bucky was expecting. He almost takes a cock in the eye, which would be both hilarious and embarrassing.

He doesn’t get Steve’s pants all the way off, it’s much more interesting to not have them off at this point, and he decides that he’s _going for it_. That dick is right there, right in front of him, and he _wants it_.

No hands- he’s using those to lift himself up, just enough, so he can get the head of Steve’s dick in his mouth. He lets it sit on his tongue for a minute, feeling the weight of it, taking in the taste that he’s missed and not even known it for seventy years.

Steve’s hands come up and run through his hair, then pull back, gripping along his skull, trying to pull him down the length of Steve’s dick. Bucky, however, can hold his own here, has always been able to, and doesn’t let Steve move him yet, instead sucking on the head of Steve’s dick like it’s some kind of lifesaving candy.

There’s that whine again, that arch of the back, and Steve’s hands grip tight in Bucky’s hair, the pressure intense but just what he’s wanted all fucking day. “Bucky, Bucky, god, don’t stop, don’t, don’t, fuck, fuck, yeah, suck me, come on, yeah, just like that, fuck…” It’s a continuing loop of cursing and positive reinforcement, and that fucking _pressure_.

Bucky starts pulling more of Steve’s dick in his mouth, using just his mouth, still hands-free. He runs his tongue along Steve’s cock, sucking tight, then letting loose again so he can take in more and more of Steve. He leans more to his left side and reaches up with one hand, aiming for Steve’s nipple and hitting the mark without even looking. _Pays to be a sniper_ , he thinks as Steve thrusts up into his mouth with a deep, bone-jarring groan.

It’s getting hot under the covers, and more than a bit humid, but both Bucky and Steve’ve spent the past seven decades on ice, so a little heat is a welcome change. He’s got his nose pressed up into the curls at the base of Steve’s dick, the head pressing against the back of his throat and feeling pretty fucking proud of himself because it’s been a long, long time since he could say that.

But then Steve’s tugging up on his hair, sharp yet weirdly gentle, and Bucky lets Steve’s cock slowly slide out of his mouth, sucking on just the tip again, making a little popping sound when he finally pulls off completely. He slides up Steve’s body, pressing every sweaty, naked part of himself against all of Steve’s sweaty, naked parts. It feels really fucking great.

Steve’s hands are still in his hair when his head breaches the edge of the covers. He blinks in the light, not realizes just how long he must have been under there. He focuses in on Steve, who’s still got red, puffy eyes, but now his lips are swollen from being bitten, and there’s the flush he always gets when he’s horny: it’s spread down his neck from his cheeks and across his chest. If it weren’t for the covers, Bucky’d bet it’d go down even farther.  

“You okay?” He asks, because if nothing else, that’s got to be his main concern. Steve’s face crumples a bit, like he’s gonna start crying again, and Bucky gets a feeling of sheer panic- have his blow job skill atrophied that badly? -but then he’s pulling Bucky down to his mouth, trying to devour him.

“I’m perfect,” Steve says, between biting kisses. “I’ve never been more perfect in my whole life.”

***

Steve’s body is on fire. That has to be it. He can’t come up with any other reason for why he’s so goddamn hot in his own skin. He tries to move his legs, to kick down the sheets, and remembers he still has his goddamn pants on.

He rolls the two of them to the right side of the bed, still kissing, still holding Bucky to him with fingers in his hair, against his skull. Steve shimmies with his hips, gets enough fabric over his feet and works the pants down and off, finally. Then, with his left leg, he presses up and kicks, getting rid of the blankets. The cool air on his skin is almost like taking a dip in a pool, refreshing and revitalizing.

He leans back to take a clear breath, his skin too full of all his emotions, pushing and pulling against him so he’s not sure he can contain it all. Bucky’s looking at him with kiss swollen lips, his cheeks and neck reddening from a bit of beard burn, his eyes hooded but watching Steve’s every move. Steve runs a finger across Bucky’s mouth, thinking about what he’d been willing to do for Steve, how sexy it’s always been to watch Bucky suck his cock. How it feels like the best of everything in the entire world, all rolled into one intensely focused sensation.

“I want you to fuck me,” he says, not thinking about it, just letting the words fall off his tongue.

Bucky groans and opens his mouth to pull Steve’s finger in, sucking on it in an imitation of the suck job he’d been giving Steve just a few minutes before. Bucky reaches up to Steve’s hand with his own and uncurls Steve’s fingers, opening his mouth again to pull in another finger to join the first. Steve has to close his eyes, else he’s gonna blow his load all over the sheets.

Then Bucky’s pushing him backwards with a gentle hand on his chest, Steve’s head landing on a soft pillow. Bucky pushes at his hips, getting him to settle on his back, and runs his hand down to Steve’s cock, giving the base of it a firm but tender squeeze.

“Don’t go off like one of Dernier’s rockets, now, Stevie.”

“Awww, why you gotta bring him into this, Buck? That’s… that’s just wrong, on so many-“ He can’t finish his sentence around the breath he has to suck in when Bucky swallows his dick down again, the whole thing, root to tip. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” he gasps. Bucky reaches up with one hand, pressing a finger into Steve mouth and Steve sucks it down, trying to copy Bucky’s rhythm.

After a minute, Bucky draws his finger back, rubbing at the base of Steve’s cock, then working it backwards, farther and farther, till he’s at Steve’s hole, pressing and rubbing with that talented, wet finger.

Steve has to close his eyes or he’s going to lose his mind.

Bucky keeps sucking and pressing and rubbing and then brings his finger back up to Steve’s mouth, never stopping his mouth on Steve’s dick.  

It’s like Steve’s plugged into a wall socket, his body’s full of electricity: muscles wanting to jump and twitch, fingers twisting in the sheets, toes curling, his knees bending and straightening, squeezing Bucky in a rhythmless pattern. He tries running his hands through Bucky’s hair again, but just ends up pulling, sharp and tight, and while Bucky groans around his dick, he swats Steve away with his free hand.

“Okay, alright, Bucky, Bucky, Bucky! I need, I need-“ Steve gulps in a breath.

“What do you need Steve?” Bucky asks him, mouth so close to Steve’s dick he can feel the movement of Bucky’s breath on the wet tip of it.

“Damnit, you fucker. I asked you to fuck me, not suck me to death.”

“Oh, Captain, my Captain,” Bucky drawls, kissing the tip of Steve’s dick, then raising himself up on his elbows and then his knees. He leans over Steve to the bedside table, where he grabs something out of the drawer. “Aha, there you are.” He holds up a tube in his hand and Steve frowns.

“What-“

“Pal, the shit they’ve invented so you can fuck will blow your _mind_. This slick was invented by rocket scientists or some shit, I guess. I don’t really care, as long as it’ll let me fuck you and not hurt you.” He shrugs as he says it, not looking at Steve’s face, neither of them wanting to think about any of the instances he’s alluding to in their past.

“I trust you, Buck,” Steve says softly.

Bucky swings a leg over Steve’s hips and leans down to kiss him. Their tongues tangle a bit, both of them biting, sucking, tugging. Bucky snaps open the top of the slick, not even looking as he squeezes a very tiny amount on his finger. Tiny is relative, honestly, and in this case, compared to the mounds of Vaseline they used to need to get anywhere back in the day, tiny is very, very small.

Bucky slides back, settles himself again between Steve’s legs. “Up on your knees. I got a plan.” He waggles his eyebrows, all Groucho Marx, and Steve laughs, turning over.

“As long as you actually plan to stick your dick in me and not a cigar, I think I’m good with whatever you’ve got cooking.”

“Shut up, Steve, and get on your hands and knees.”

“Sir, yes, sir.”

“Fuck you, I work for a living,” Bucky smacks his ass playfully and spreads his ass cheeks with one hand, using the other to work the slick into Steve’s hole with a finger. It feels amazing, Steve’s already primed and ready to go, or at least, the engine's running even if they haven’t left the station.

Bucky starts working with a singular focus on slicking Steve up and working him open. His hand solidly in there, he stops holding Steve open and starts rubbing his lower back, aiming for releasing the tension there and some additional stretching. Steve doesn’t care, it just feels so _good_.

Steve loses time, which should concern him, but it’s always been a thing with them when they’d had sex, where Steve or Bucky had just gotten into such a groove that they’d look up and _bam_ , it was an hour later. Or two. And neither of them had really noticed. He’s not worried about it now either.

“You ready?” Bucky groans, having worked a third finger in there, twisting so that he’s got all three down to the second knuckle. Steve thinks he’s gonna split wide open on Bucky’s hand, and he hasn’t even had a chance to ride his cock yet. And what a cock it is. Damn.

“Yeah,” Steve gasps, hands kneading the bedsheets underneath them, the force of his grip & fingernails already tearing holes in the fancy sheets. “Yeah, Bucky. Do it. I need you to. I need you. I need-“

Bucky slides in like he belongs there, like his cock is just supposed to always be in Steve. He stutters his hips forward once, twice, then stops when he and Steve whine simultaneously. “Shit, baby, I’m almost there. Fuck.”

Steve grabs his own dick, squeezing hard at the base of his cock, and he can feel Bucky doing the same. The old tricks are sometimes the best tricks, it seems.  After a minute, Bucky starts to slide in again, then pulls back out, ramping up to a steady rhythm that hits Steve’s prostate, but not regularly enough to be a problem.

Bucky makes a three hard, solid, full thrusts into his ass, then leans forward and wraps his left arm around Steve’s torso. With a heave - which in theory is much sexier than it sounds - he pulls Steve up with him, Steve’s back practically glued to Bucky’s chest. Steve’s balancing himself on his knees, but the force of Bucky’s thrusts has him tipping forward so Bucky tightens his hold, to the point Steve can feel the hard points of his nipples pressing into his back.

With Bucky’s other hand, he reaches up and covers most of Steve’s left cheek and chin area, turning his head towards Bucky so he can fuck Steve’s mouth with his tongue the way he’s fucking Steve’s ass with his dick.

The hold shouldn’t be good. It should be the exact opposite, but being held back against Bucky feels like all Steve ever wanted. He starts pushing his hips back to meet Bucky’s thrusts, getting him deeper, more contact with his prostate, and more mind-blowing friction on his rim as Bucky just starts _pounding_ into him.

The fizzy sparks of orgasm start to bubble up around Steve and he begins to panic. He doesn’t want to come like this, no matter how much he likes being held this way. Fucked this way. “Please, Buck, I need to see you. I need to come but I need to see you, look at your face, your goddamn gorgeous face.”

Bucky pulls out and manhandles Steve around so he can fall to the bed on his back, legs askew with his dick hard flushed a deep red, pointing right towards his face. He grabs Steve by the thighs and pulls him back towards Bucky, then shifts a hand to hold the back of Steve's right knee, bringing it up towards Steve’s right ear. One leg up with the other stretched to the side, Bucky guides himself with his free hand as he sinks back into Steve's ass.

Steve responds like a live wire hitting water, orgasm swirling out from the base of his cock, pushing against his skin, and he starts begging. “Stop, Bucky, stop! I’m almost there, I can’t come yet, I can’t, I need to last, for you, I need to-“

Bucky shuts him up with a devouring kiss. When he finally breaks away from Steve’s mouth, still steadily fucking into his ass, leg still up by Steve’s ear, he’s grinning like the cat that ate the canary. “I know this gun fires more than one round, Rogers, I’ve seen it happen. I bet if I make you come now, you’ll just keep going.”

“No, Bucky, c'mon - that’s not, that’s not-“ Steve whimpers once then groans, which turns into a horse yell, as Bucky pounds in harder, rubbing his prostate at just the right angle, hitting that sweet spot dead on the money, exactly how a sniper with perfect aim would. Steve can’t fight it, can’t stop all the built-up pleasure from cresting, and, with a shout, he lets his head fall back and he comes.

And comes. And _comes_.

After a few minutes, when he's finally aware of anything other than his blinding orgasm, and he can actually see Bucky, still above him gently thrusting into him, he can see Bucky was absolutely right, that fucker. He's still erect, his dick just as hard as it was before he came, with the head laying in the giant, quickly spreading come splattered across his belly.

Bucky’s kissing on him all over, across his shoulders, his chest, his neck and ears. Bucky’s lips feel incredible, and that’s on top of the overwhelming pleasure from his leisurely thrusting. By all rights he should be over-stimulated and sensitive, but after the serum he wasn’t really a one and done guy anymore. He can feel it, the desire to keep going.

He tilts his head back to give Bucky access to his throat and, as he does, Bucky says, “Do you wanna fuck me?”

Steve freezes underneath him, eyes wide open like he’s been interrupted masturbating by the parish priest. In the confessional. Fucking Bucky, being in him, is a _thing_ for Steve. Before the war, he couldn’t keep a hard-on to save his life. They’d try things, mess around, but for the most part, they’d end up doing it the same way: Bucky fucking Steve, while Steve struggled to orgasm, no matter how good it felt. Now, though, he can go off like a firework and still be kicking it, almost immediately able to go again.

“I said,” Bucky starts again. “Do you wanna fuck me?”

“Uh-huh,” Steve says, barely able to manage actual words.

“Do you want me to get myself ready for you?” Bucky asks, and it’s clear from his tone that he has something else in mind. Steve's more than willing to go with just about any plan Bucky can come up with, from now until the end of time. Especially if it involves sex.

“Uh, yeah,” he says, again, not sure if he made actual sounds or just thought he did.

Bucky lays back with the bottle of slick and starts fingering himself open, but he’s not merely being cursory, he’s putting on a _show_ for Steve. He’s trying to be sexy, as much as anyone can when sticking their fingers up their ass. Which, now that Steve thinks about it, is insanely fucking sexy.

Steve starts pulling on his own dick, coating himself with a healthy amount of lube, and reaches down to finger at his own hole. It’s a bit puffy and swollen, but it feels so fucking good when he touches it he can barely stand it.

Bucky’s making noise now, really getting in there with two of his metal fingers. He’s practically writhing on the sheets, sweat beading along his hairline. He pulls at his own cock, still slick from when he was fucking Steve, and he groans. He sounds like he’s close.

“Stop,” Steve says. “Stop. I want you to come on my dick. Think you can do that?”

“Fuck yeah - _Steve_ ,” Bucky says, voice low and full of gravel.

“You like how it feels with two fingers? You like how tight it is? How it stings a bit?” Steve asks, words pouring out of him without thinking them through. “Maybe I should just stick it in there now, just like that. Would you like that, sweetheart? A little too tight in there, yeah? My cock just a little too big?”

Bucky squeezes his eyes shut as he whines, gripping the base of his dick. Then he opens his eyes and looks right at Steve. “Fuck yes, Rogers. Get that ass over here.”

Steve crawls over to settle over Bucky, sliding up his body as Bucky slowly relaxes onto the bed. Their faces close together, not kissing, sharing air and looking at each other, both just fucking _happy_. “Ready?” Steve asks, kissing Bucky lightly on the lips, once, twice, three times.

“I’ve been ready since 1938. You gonna put up or shut up, Rogers?” Bucky grins, but he looks a little nervous. He wants this just as much as Steve does.

Steve surges forward and kisses him, his intensity up to eleven. After a moment, Steve uses a hand to line himself up and press forward, pushing into Bucky. “Oh my god,” he groans, slowly bottoming out. Bucky’s pushing his hips up against him, face a mix of discomfort and intense pleasure.

“Fuck, fuck, Rogers, don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t - oh, shit, I can’t-“ Bucky’s twisting a bit on the bed beneath him. His arms come up to grip at Steve’s shoulders, at his neck, his face, grasping for something but not grabbing hold of anything. “I can’t take any more!”

“Sure you can, Buck,” Steve says, breathing hard like he’s just run from DC to Brooklyn. “If I can take it, you can take it. And I just did. So I know you can.” He finally reaches that point where his balls are flush with Bucky’s ass, body as close he can get, and Steve has to stop and take a breath. “Oh, yeah, Buck, look at that. You’re taking it so good for me.”

“Don’t try to act all bossy now, asshole.” Bucky says, breathing just as hard, eyes closed. “I just don’t have as much practice on this side of things as you do."

“Sure,” Steve says. “That’s it. Whatever. You look goddamn beautiful taking my cock.” He has a shit-eating grin, and Bucky opens his eyes to smirk right back.

“When I tell you to move, Stevie, I need you to _move_. Got it?”

“Yeah, I got it.” Steve watches as Bucky shifts slightly, in what seem like tiny changes, but that must have made a difference for Bucky. He lets out an audible sigh, and most of the tension he’d been carrying melts away.

“Okay,” Buck says, voice breathy and just a bit higher than normal. “Move for me.” 

Steve surges forward, like a car being driven by a ten year old, slamming his hips against Bucky’s. He shifts his grip, kissing Bucky in apology for the high speed collision, and tries again, this time with a bit more restraint. The slick makes everything smooth as butter, and he can’t believe just how _good_ it is.

Bucky’s grasping at the sheets and Steve takes Bucky’s hands, twining their fingers together, bringing their joined hands above Bucky’s head. Steve leans up so that most of his weight is being held there, and presses his forehead to Bucky’s.

“I missed you so fucking much, Buck,” Steve murmurs.

Bucky closes his eyes and, after a second, a tear runs down his face, disappearing onto the sheets. “I didn’t want to forget you. But I didn’t have a choice. Can you forgive me?”

“Bucky, Jesus, how can you ask me that?”

Bucky’s eyes pop open, to stare at Steve’s face, to see what he means.

“I know, sweetheart,” Steve whispers as he slows down but keeps moving in and out, pressing their bodies together as close they can get. “I know. There’s nothing to forgive, not even for a single second. I love you. I love you so much.”

And then Bucky’s crying, full-blown crying that doesn't look good on anyone, and Steve just keeps moving, whatever rhythm he’d had before replaced with something gentle, that could be considered making love. Steve tries to show Bucky just how much he loves him with his body, and he hopes it works.

Bucky just keeps crying, though, a reverse of where Steve was just an hour before. Sobbing, everything coming out all at once, through his eyes.

“That’s right, baby. Just let it out. Let me help you. I love you, James Barnes. Always have, always will. No matter what stupid thing you think you’ve done.”

“Pot, kettle,” Bucky manages to get out, and turns his head from one side to the other, trying to wipe the wetness away. Steve releases his hands to let him wipe off his face, giving him a hug in the meantime, hips still rocking steadily.

Steve decides to roll them over, pulling Bucky on top of him, staying inside him the whole time. Once he’s got Bucky on top, he runs his hands up Bucky’s sides and tweaks his nipples, first the left  then right side, and pushes his hips  _up._  After the first few thrusts, Bucky takes the hint and starts to ride him, hands planted on Steve's chest to steady himself.

Steve sees the minute it hits Bucky, that he’s going to come, when his eyes grow wide and his mouth drops open. He’s got an almost alarmed expression, but Steve just grins. “Yeah, that’s right sweetheart. Come for me, right on my dick. Can you do that for me?”

“Yeah,” Bucky says, losing himself to his orgasm. He really goes for it, bouncing on Steve’s cock, his rhythm punishing and clearly hitting his prostate, obvious from the sounds he makes when he sinks down, Steve replying with motions just as intense. Then, Bucky stiffens above him, and grabbing at his dick, stroking it twice, coming all over Steve’s stomach.

Watching Bucky come all over him sends Steve careening over the edge for the second time. “Oh, shit, Bucky, I’m-“ and then he can’t talk anymore, can only thrust up three times, coming in Bucky’s ass for what seems like forever.

When they’re both back to the land of the living, it’s to the reality that they’re covered in spunk and somewhat stuck together, having fallen asleep on one another, their come acting as glue. It’s one of the most normal but still bizarre things to happen to Steve in a really long time. 

“Shit, Rogers. That was…” Bucky stops talking, like he's still coming back online, like a computer. It’s kind of funny, since he’s just staring at Steve with a dopey grin on his face.

“That was great,” Steve says, kissing Bucky gently, running his hands down Bucky’s back with a feather soft touch. “Thank you. That was everything I wanted.”

“Same here, pal,” Bucky says, grinning, but uncharacteristically shy. “Wanna join me in the shower?”

“Can we make it the bathtub?” Steve asks, as they extricate themselves from one another, trying not to grimace as they unstick various parts of themselves from where come has glued their hairier bits together.

“Sure, I think we’ll both fit.” Bucky stretches, naked, and Steve can see all the marks he’d made: beard burn, bite marks, fingernail scratches, bruises from when he didn’t quite realize his own strength. Bucky looks beautiful, a canvas displaying the physical reminders of their love.

“We’ll fit no matter what. The difference might be if any water can join us.” Steve giggles at his own joke, realizing just how tired and worn out he is if he let himself _giggle_.

They step into the bathroom and Bucky stops Steve with a hand on his chest, right below a bite mark Bucky’d added to Steve’s pec. “You know I meant it, right? I love you and I’m here-“

“Bucky, I did, too. And I’m sorry if you didn’t-“ Steve can’t help the guilt he’s feeling but Bucky won’t let him wallow, never would, really. He interrupts.

“I did. I always did. We just didn’t have a lot of options, that’s all. But now, now we’ve got time and legality on our side.” 

“Yeah, we sure do.” Steve can’t stop staring at Bucky’s eyes. Those beautiful eyes, gray or blue, depending on the day or his mood, are always completely enchanting. As he stares, Bucky rolls those eyes, knowing how cheesy Steve’s being, even if it’s in his own head.

“Start the bath, Rogers.” He presses a kiss to Steve's mouth. 

“How much more time do we have here?” Steve asks, over by the tub where he's trying to understand all the different dials and bottles. How difficult can running a bath be in the future?

“Until T’Challa can get rid of Ross. So, a long time, potentially.”

“That’s great. I wanna make sure we take that slick stuff for a real test drive.”

“I see.” Bucky says, grinning. “We’ll have to approach it scientifically. Try things we’ve done before. Then stuff we haven’t. Then a combo. Then a few more rounds, just to be thorough.”

“We’ll just have to take this one for the team, if we’re gonna be here anyway.”

“It’s a hard job, but someone’s gotta do it.”

Steve snorts and throws one of the guest soaps at Bucky’s head. He catches it in his right hand, not even bothering to use his left. “It’s not hard yet, but give me a few minutes, I can fix that right up.” 

“You’re an idiot, Rogers, but you’re _my_ idiot. Don’t you forget it.”

 

**The End**

 

****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to all the people who were cheerleaders for me ( **gutterandthestars** , **zoealden** ), who put up with me being very bad at time management, and apparently writing porn on any kind of a deadline ( **alby** ). Thank you to **fadefilter** for the INCREDIBLE artwork- it's SO amazing!!!! 
> 
> Thank you to the amazing folks who ran the RBB- you are doing an incredible job and I can't imagine how you get it all done. Thank you for your hard work.


End file.
